a tea kettle
freight rattling till morning
tracks clacking around the bend
their rapport
contemplative
where does Mars go
when it's not going round
hissing, grinding its teeth
fat-fingered whistle at the sun
but -- oh, the morning sky!
Zion hangs by a thread
red wings, shucked like corn
when it comes around
radiant to the trough of the sea
you'll come and go, Sahara
the breeze cartwheels, luxury
until the moon landed like a gull
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