Strange

Bob, , , 
The strumming reaches the ceiling and out
The open window, 

Till far from its guitar, files in with the dusk,
Whose thoughts are gold-red and blue-gold 
And gold-pink.

The UFO is a treasure map.
How an angel, in the city, 
Sitting on a power line, marks the spot.

Till the cosmos tickles on the tongue
And expands between the ears.

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