Monday, March 30, 2020

I am older than my father
(the ferns cried on the rocks)

I see our waste changing
the shape of things
making my most liquid bones
flicker inside the form I have found

blinking at a green mound
silver pole surrendering a flag

some scribbled map lines
for the mute damage,

ensconced within a melted law,
tugging the tides to bright canals

a thick worm enjoying the mirror

the fine ash of impacted dawn

a cooled fountain, the nest's linked arms

startled eyes for a reborn beard

the laughter going down in suds
and a swirl of gas.

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