in a velvet glade
covered with
piercing eyes.
Growling over
the lines of gravity's wires,
light fallen
in wrenching patterns
on the ground that heaves.
Flames licking at
the grids of order
that invited them
to come in.
He limps toward
a constantly
rearranged horizon,
he never turns--
his many eyes are pulling
at him all over--
then lopes along
the rays of
a disintegrating sun
on the land where
his ghost pack
dreams and runs.
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