Sunday, 13 October 2013

I Turn All Of The Mirrors

Glued on leaves suspended in a gelid plasma.
The riders parted the grasses with the hooves of their horses.
One rider sleeping somehow holding on through the thundering.


You rush out with a predictable camera
I turn all of the mirrors
towards the darkness decorated
with foil stars

someone makes fires from wrappers
transparent flames
of purples, yellows

the shapes of a soldier
all gallant
in cap, coat and gun
that lifts until
the muzzle barks
lifting the lid
on a cosmic hum.

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