Tucked away in the back pocket
Of a star are a hundred empty poems

The moon
Pulls itself on board
Just in time
As the green meadows of the sun
Crawl into the streets

Tonight shadows perform
With a mind
Like canvas shoes just back from an acid trip

I have been stung by a sunshine of scarlet
Proportion
The tread marks of dusk

Don’t ask me to repeat any of this

From the dark cube of the sun
Laughing like an angry recipe

Filling its belly on rain
And the wrists of April

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