... and they haunched down
at four corners of city.
One with hair, a river bend,
another, the sweet voice of bird,
the third, an eye
as large as moon...
the last,
whose flesh
bright silver shone,
held two small stones.
Night is a circle.
City is captive
in tresses of river.
Nightingales sweetly,
softly, the rain.
In a large-paned window,
the body of woman,
breasts aglow.
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