The moon is venting tonight.

The clock sticks to its rungs.

You’re swimming underwater toward something prehistoric.

Climbing a hill that doesn’t go anywhere through cloud.

No one visits that many miles away from the setting sun.

One hand can still fold and clap seaweed or some other green acquisition.

Sun lost in the grass.

Lungs breathing a song no one quite remembers.

It’s become passé to claim stalemate against yourself.

The kingdom always wins.

Tomorrow the moon hides behind entwined trees and chattering bats.

Buses filled with mannequins slip through the rain.

It’s October again.

Friday maybe.

This letter won’t find a stamp.

This phone call won’t discover your labyrinth of stairs.

Only some of this matters.

Only some find fortune in paper cups.

If you’re lucky, the coyotes pierce your dreams with wandering above ground.

An estranged friend calls with hidden bounty though you won’t answer.

Something about a picnic in a forest of litanies.

It wasn’t always like this.

Libraries on fire with lost magic.

Homes pulled inside out by conjecture.

You’ve been meaning to articulate a flight that’s not ridiculous.

Toward the catbirds moving south.

Articulate a better plan.

The hammock left in the basement, so you can measure properly without summer.

Without leaves wrapped in your hair.

On the postcard, there were miracles written in cursive.

The moon didn’t lose its back.

Cicadas weren’t dying.

Summer had been a symphony of abandon.

You found something worthwhile.

Something that makes hide and seek with a new self obsolete.

Something worth mentioning.

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