After the dirt wakes up and you slip your open shoes, try to cut the black sky in your side with silver, to make an absence of sun a pagan crucifixion, a new lightning bug, the hole in the tin lid pierced with a nail too wide; let him climb, open the carapace, hold the wings, palm up, to the tops of the tree and the crossbars of the telephone pole, bleeding creosote; lift to the rust and black of the light, the monster green of the glow smeared across the white heart of your t-shirt, the long heat, the red coin, the free cutaway night.
1 comment:
Great work.
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