My eyes are Otter Pop slush.
Meet my hair, a weedy Medusa.
You can carve me like a Whistling Swan, but I sing only
the blueness of Superman's cave.
My eyes return
among married life, seven times
lost: in Antarctica, lost the slots.
I knit a web full of hands,
yet only the lost apocalypse touches me. My wars
are warm now, and my eyes
are meshbags
of melting chocolate coins.
What am I?
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