7.


Must we limp the gaps of fat tarantulas and second looks,
So our blue-black plumes become the distant research of the enemy?

Attack the staircase waving tusks of bedroom mastodons?  
I won’t begrudge the dead park-benches where they used to sit when living.

And though each clarinet could flax the whole shebang, 
Unsure exactly what condition nimbostratus should imply, 

When feathers burst like neon flares across the sky,
I would rather be hysterical than breathe the jealous air.

The tropic zones of every quaking shoulder send out shadows
Imperceptible and numinous so every quaint desire becomes a coral reef

Brittle, pink, and hardly reachable with little men in scuba gear
Circling through the waters, disconnected endlessly but never freed.  
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