Litmus hoax the
Old soul's antechamber against still tall
Drip-feed yellow vines
Stands a bullet arch into the stars
Plotted with no quack's map home
A wrestler of animals
Wrought from celestial
Half-headed gods in typography
With arms over and into arms
Stony, pious
Despairingly beautiful in silhouette
I wrote first from the flat earth to everywhere
Skimming the crop-circle landing site with my fingers and toes for clues
From the nineteen-fifties
Dew
The ground is still soft from the prints of one or two
Who saw the whale as a comet
Disappearing
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