The pages gilt
only in the shut
book, the ground
the speech
of objects.
Analog bilateral,
the volume of the
metalspot,
the pawed moon
in the lazy creek.
Stand-alone
tomes slough
off, a hunter
in a boar-husk.
In leaving behind
the boom of the beat
skin, the ghost
of the animal
is gone, the sweat
streaked serif.
A shroud
of zeroes drops
a flanged cube,
each thing disintegrating
into data. The
lay
of the land snatched
out too slowly,
the flasks shatter
& sway. I
am going
away into the sleeve,
the shelf, the tire-
marks all the day
long, the long day
with no sun or moon
that hovers, a bottle-
fly above
a wound.
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