Sunday, August 01, 2004

poem written at night

There was a squall inside the music.

Diagonal, like a misread line, something
sat obscure. In the grass,

there were ten thousand small, lit displays,
quelling the moon and perhaps its gravity.

Valorously, the fireworks abandoned
their souls, massively drifting—

a suspended infinitive alphabet.
I was susceptible to reading.

Tobacco smoke drifted by, so I began
to float away on it. Really, there was no

music, but it began the evening.

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