Apr 11, 2011


The pages gilt
only in the shut
book, the ground
the speech
of objects. 
Analog bilateral,
the volume of the
the pawed moon
in the lazy creek.
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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