over the walls of a basement level garden
over the water that pours like hurt language
over the bridges that buzz like rubber bands.
There are tiny bottles in a row
filling with substantial peacock plumage
refracted coins and leather weapons
delirium of ink and the soul kept on ice too long
pouring out of every particle that will stay still
glass rattling on a dustpan
or the whole sky shifting like a shield
no wombs that seed could wield
pouring into day bone naked
shaking like a photograph of stone.
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