by Michael Cluff
the empty moon for you
twirl the dynamite stick
unlit
until sparks of purple
splash into the frozen bay.....
The waggle of the waffles
hopping hot out of the toaster
in retro avocado green
will never coincide
with the shift
I will do under the earthly cover
to shake the fallout
off your rust-riddled hair.
Once the slippage of water
is confounded by my in-held breathe
monasteries will chant
your name
and lost books of antiquity
and religious lore
will descend into libraries
where data bases will shimmer
with a batch of light
once seen long ago
and not again
until now noir nights.
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