by Tom Blood
like whistles, I am stiff and singing on a ledge
and am reminded of my old form, the mirrors
that stare on, willing and able
where the moon sets the sun
and the moon beggars about
in a sheet bird
waterfall withering the cloth moon
oh, godly world
burglar of the boat
a balloon dragging the wind down
as a water skimming over
so I wander as Moses, without an Egypt or an Israel
looking into the centuries ash
for what appears as a fire escape in this crap building
is seeing pumpkin sprout in the moon’s belly
it’s nothing, really, it’s nothing, but it is not always through the first world we see
the being and end yester trees with grace among us
as when the drowsy fairies take the guardian poodles away from our temple memories
and our swimming hands are allowed to turn the pages of the world
it’s nothing, it’s just the fog coming to night us over
(in Peaches and Bats 4)
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