Monday, September 26, 2016

Nothing brings New England to mind
the reds, golds and yellows of autumn blitz
one hundred twelve still span Vermont waterways and New Hampshire salt
Vermont roads only twelve covered bridges kisses in the long wet highways of
thunder in the thistle on the grapevine

tongue's costume hung on the air
hang-glazed body of warning dreams
prow sunk in pollen depths
wig fractured & spun by pink
an orange pyramid
spilt by oysters:

pock marks of civilization
the hull of eternity,
windows nonetheless part,
lengthen roads of petal sash
past dams and over packed logging roads
where leaps are uneaten by sight,
abandoned, the seeker can free time
lakes and lakes of his saliva
on machine sand.

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