at the root of my tongue
alleys of storm washed days
shining with moss struck fire escapes
the glitter of frozen water
on fingertips of pensive statues
beams leaning on antique doorways
mice-like people in their furtive stations
still laboring under the fish eye light
the boat-weight of accumulated feathers
flashing hunger at a ringed moon
while the fences lean
to a pale center of gravity
and hot coals rain out of the mouth
of a high metallic tunnel
still smoking in the funnel's blades
that have opened from my dreams
bronze cacophonies made round with streams.
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