>may day

ground beneath the blossom-snow the underfoot of life
walking insomnia bleeding the moon to a crust

day, day, a strangle. a gathering of focus. too many
mute eyes pushing deep into stained wood. an autograph.
no mere identity would do,
                                               but does
& the queues outnumber the free

Spring is smoothing the trees. human bones plead
for softening, too painful to sleep. the gush of dream
is a tangle in the slide of perception

            the waking pick at the moon, wrap it
in a day-shaped sleeve. call it the sun.

plant it.

From ‘the idea of wings’.


Previously published at Counterexample Poetics


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