Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Rain / Dream: 8



Rain / Dream: 8

The moon has so many black eyes.
Awkward night walks on short-cropped
April-green weeds: no rungs to the stars.

Drunk, head down on a greasy rough plank
in a deadfall 1880's Rocky Mountain saloon,
eyes blink as lung-blood drips off Doc's chin.

Skeletal hands, brown beer bottle glass
arranged to approximate a saint's face:
to become a public figure... blood-wool.

Scenarios of magic require upheaved props:
powdered moon rock, painted hawk feathers,
oil from Mother Teresa's mange-flake scalp.


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