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The Telegram


The moon sends me
Further down the fairway between pine steeples and birches,
So the night feels what I pedestrianly understand as ‘soviet’—
Drearily stalking leaves.
Through phases of the grass :
Enclosed in shoelaces; cradled by a sandal until
Carpet that hasn’t had the edge walked off yet—surface tenses,
—cuts in swollen feet.
The moon tangles up in tall willows
And I have lost sight of everything.  Thousands of windows;
The city’s light, lowered on itself like hoar-frost.

You can tell it’s a cheap course by the lack of malice in design,
Left around banks of rooves that ripple and blotch
Like dark muscles.

Coming back I am behind myself.  Growing rough
Hoodwinks me into feeling
Indoors, until earth is lying on its other side,

And the golfers are teeming.



—for Cameron Churchill




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