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Dense night is a needs thing.

You were lured
in a luminous canoe
said to have once ruled
a lunar ocean.

The 2 am soda pour
of stars is all but silent;
only listen — 

sedater than a sauropod
in the bone epics
it spills all the moon spice,

releasing a sap odour
that laces
us to a vaster scale
of road opus.

A carousel of oral cues,
these spinning sonic coins.

A slide show of old wishes.
...
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