Sunday, August 10, 2014


Swing low, swing high
whistle, howl, hoot beside
me at the full moon with your chains flying,
brother, laughing helplessly and too loud to be
reasonable. Was creation ever
meant to be taken indifferently,
of habit? A tooth-flossing duty, or a cough
and a gasp like vodka?
Far be it from me
(it is ever so close),
to blink at heaven
scooping down and whipping up
our heels, our hair, our hearts in hallelujah.


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