the wild heath whispers into the call box a theory; it says something of purple floods and iron specters resolving interior chambers in strands of holy knitted cotton. the perspiring star collector follows the pharaonic cloud; he removes his sportcoat and listens. at a great distance there’s a boy got a kite into the air from a seesaw; he is risen, says the star collector and the wind swallows it whole. I settle in the microbial city and can't get a read on the moon; I'm told it continues to rise in the east ruffled against the silhouette of a river and that it smells of mountain mint and nests in the box of dream and rests at the hour of stone when the false king of Mauritius shakes the snow globes atop the telephone poles and steeps his paper skin in golden hemlock |
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