3.


To children in their beds, the night must look empty of all sound.
Ocean liners heaped with snow shiver through uncharted waters.

The first mate maroons canaries in damned blue Finlandic tabloids.
Will the hagiographies of petty icebergs soon be on the wire?

Manhandle fenders far too pleasing in the gold of blameless celluloid.
The line of elevated train cars in the night whispers rotten baby teeth are wiser.

Push the gearshift of each jungle cat’s clutched paws
Without condolence for the squeaks and squawks of metal tendons.
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