The Worn Soles of the Moon

The worn sole of the moon.
The haggle of the afternoon leftovers in
The ears.
A slapstick of terror = graffiti umbrellas.
A giggle of blood reaches out for the
Unbuttons its curfew elevators.

Between nonsense and fury,
Joy draws straws.

Daises ring ring ring the
Stretching bells of our assumptions,
Like death and the color of sails.

2 thoughts on “The Worn Soles of the Moon

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