and time stalls, permitted
this fall in suspension
shall be my banner
and fulcrum drive,
the wheel of spines
is a city's height
that rolls with her acceptance
and the harbors are
stricken with labor,
and the shore mapped
with cloth-torn acres,
wet lightning that is akin to an indoor moth,
the meat levers of scissor limbs
at work on matchbook coffins,
garlic tassels and dune
photographs that ache for the rain
on a train of bookcases
strung forms of light.
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