little box; double/corrupt

He sways, sleeping where he drops,

wakes already telling tales,

prattles and sings the whole way home;

        Dionysus

sighs relieved, grants what is desired:

more than one could ever need.

All twigs can now be golden,

but water too, food, daughter,

all loves will be golden and lost –

        touching

– everything lost but this one prayer:

she’s clean; golden grit for him.

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