Matryoshka

Make for me your melancholy
that sound of loss so sweet
substantive as a savory
in summer’s muggish heat
for though we all would wish the world
be free of fear and grief
a lass in throes her figure curled
makes of our heart a thief
we fall with trepedatious trust
hoping only to be caught
the hands of those who said we must
their purchase all we sought
and once we find our weightless self
do we take part as human shelf

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