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Eclipse of the Moon

on the re-found record
has lost its sting, stretch, bitterness,
a child could take home.
Silken-brushed velvet now wraps
ten years of pit-scars lifted
into justification of pain.
The starfish shatters
in sunskeins
into an animal.
African ivory-tooth
now turns from soft flesh
singing.
My eyes are filled with sand.
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On a wet branch song
pierces the grey air. Green notes
sight on the mist like a revolver.
Grief and love are one.
Green branch, fog hot,
Shot like song dissolved.
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Sleek and stiff and new the horse gallops
up the bare earth. White trees,
folded leaves in the blazing early morning
draw back in suppressed ardor. Wet sun
dries on the grey grasses. Is the air awake
that hums with reverie –- in this blood
pounding the heart, racing the sounds of insects?
The bones of the horse gallop
in imagined meters. This is day, this is
night: white leaves in the wakeful darkness,
trees skirting tremorously the shining earth.
The sound of the stiff new pale
unexercised horse always beginning
uncaptured, unestranged, clearing a path
on bare ground, tears through the imagining
phantom world with a rhythm like dry thunder.
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