Finding text you took up ochre and iron,
etched the pale vellum of my mind with gold.
Illuminate this manuscript, these eyes.
Line words with woad and coal and images of birds,
fill with tumeric and lead what has been black and white.
Blank verse entwined with vines, my veins are verdigris
vessels in the workshop of your cinnabar smile.
Stiff spines stretch, a book opens,
plain pages disappear into an indigo night.
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