talks to frozen whirlpools
from a violet shrouded hour
glass flaunts her offhand dancing
in the aisles of a curdled dusk
with granite guardrails
where we walk
toward each other through the telephone
flown man makes his cross on Venus
leather pants laughing on powerlines
dreaming of a rapt guitar
low stations
get their intricate motors raging
neon oils paint the water
harbor's ranks of salted blades.
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