October 19, 2008


This poem
is a vanity: worse than lipstick.
Things are extraordinary.
The moon wanes.
A belly swells.

This poem is technical, yet angelic;
with the word apple in it;
and something about the blush of sleep.
This poem is crafty: a petite point.

It is structured in the breathless dream of night
where the sliver-moon sparks and magic
cells are stars dividing—
sailing in the void.

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