Words on the lips of
A stamen of a blind man—
Rolling back and forth
In a movie theatre that
Is trying to make love
To the moonlight over a dog track—
With foam on his lips,
And airplanes in her hair—
The beautiful narcolepsy of woman
Consumed by a bee hive—
Or the beautiful if fathomable lies
Of prostitutes—
Well, you don't have to go around
Here anymore,
But I see you sometimes, fashioning
You own games,
Like glowing hooks fashioned to
Bring down the grown angels from
Their twenty feet of sky.
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