August 11

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When you go deeper the fish
turn from black to raspberry
she said on a different occasion.
We met under a tree. Her hair white,
she (maybe too) aware of sea bubbles
at the momentary brush of the wind.

The crabs in the trees taste like apples.
The roots in the ground absorb
memories the dead whisper
under what they take for dust
or ash in the troposphere
but it’s all release from days to day,
and the monotony of the body’s
involuntary heaving.

The wind sometimes goes gritty here
in the high places, where clouds reach
for your ears with purple timbre
and cracking like pressure sensitive beams.
I once saw a country sink
into the sea and cows chewing
and an eagle take something that looked like
kite string from the belly of a friend.

The eye goes yellow in the valley
where we played harps. Gray
in the rain that burns with acids
the crowds milling under sunset.
Pass through tomorrow and I’ll
play you songs, if I’m able,
about a cup, a horse, and that nail
penetrating your shoe
when you leapt from the roof
thinking you could fly
and drag the earth behind you.

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