there are no fathers
and blue light just crawls
up the walls
the realm of the egg
in radiant smoke waves
the cliffs I climb
on the inside of a wheel
the fences grab at space
with their granulated screens
the dancers whip ribbons
and raise daggers of black glass
against a sourdough moon
wet paths web their way down
to a citadel of glue
each step sprayed with rock dust
for the myths that must implode
among melted pillars
forced air for a swinging hammer
ravines between the strands
of a statue's hair.
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