Saturday, April 20, 2019

Furnished lots and boot-bent cans
for the secret superstar of torn wings,
firing on nets of hard light
separating in the painted canyon.

Propeller hands pushing at the earth's air
to stand on blinking planetariums.
The dream of flight stopping
at a cornered sky
and a dangling cord.

Blank eyes through the pounded windshield
stereo still playing what the living hand selected
pebbles raining from an electric wave of dirt
tapping metal through paint
blood in its array of drumbeats
the mode of subtracted things
scowling with insight.

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