Whistling down the wooded town road.
Long fingers of light through the foggy leaves
nailing the night onto the deep starry wall,
slicing the tune into the sung, spent darkness—
the death of a moment gives the push for another,
the breath of the music, the slither of the eel.
Walking into the tune I’ve yet to blow
through the blue nails, my back burns black—
slow vapors smuggle me into the darkness
piece by piece, like ants do with sweets.
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