The grave survivalist stood
in the blue meadow
accosting a fervent mirror.
Evening spread like pollen.
He saw the entrance to it
behind him,
but there was
gauze to stack and count
before it all disappeared
in the swirl of magic noise
wreathing the blank sky,
or the failure of darkness
or the teeth of the moon
or the spigots of eternity
or the implacable prison
of urgent flowers.
His heart had already flown
into the busy distance.
7/24/2014
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