Vol. 7



In how the eaves
of an unremarkable church
hang a flock of shadows
and summer draws
back as a hairline: you
could run thin
in a place like this

Could hold the weak
steam of godhood to yourself
in freight car diners:
skin filmed in honeyed
smoke, your life a knotted
rope and gone a fogged
mask between your hands

Such work to leave
this sleeper where it sleeps
(westbound flight, window
perch) with football fields
lit up on the beach
of night like sea glass
or beetles on their backs

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