Saturday, September 25, 2021

In Thick Grass

Barroom rage is like you 
and so is that apology you gave him 
after storming to the parking lot barking 
of imbalance to not cry.  
 
Well, now. Wide halo  
of full-moon beams 
like a UFO, 
sets us in tall grass on the East River. 

I turn from the skyline and you 
are a stone rabbit crying blood, 
Chrysler-crowned miracle. 

We are wrestling on the landing of some stairs
on the isthmus
or in a white glowing desert,
 
the steam of redwoods,
I am different but you know me
better.

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