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Decks

Save a poet’s wings from turning black

when they open above a bright sea.

Slice good fruits into spindles and rows

just beyond the tide’s white fingers.

Cut the throat of an old bull, again,

while the blind dance between shards of glass.

Children will come running with fireworks,

“Rain’s moving across the water.”

Let white meat go to meal; the blood go pink.

The sharp edges will lift off the floor,

drift for the spaces between our toes,

while the pen works madly.