Solar flares & Angelus bells, &
the always bling bling waves
a word enters the heliosheath
(in 40,000 years it will reach
the next nearest star). What
small world have you thrown
your allegiance to? Tanks
of starboom, Saturn
just south of the gibbous moon,
the trees kneel in moonlight.
Nothing means anything more
than we need it to. Morning
the old man on the cliff does
Tai Chi with swords. Lake
tutored birds fly in the mailslot.
The wearaway of rock writes the world.
The sky muscle drops sandhill cranes
that coming down look like old men
falling from invisible worlds.
Winds polish fears, make them
beautiful. Ice on the tongue of God.
The gab of waves.
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