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No Wall, No Moon

ISSUE:  Summer 1992
Stare space. That’s where
You sit on the shore’s edge and we whistle faster
And faster in a tangle to the night:

Okay, so we’re there in the middle,
In the white of it. It’s luxurious, absolutely nothing
Like sadness or a boat dragged up, scrofulous
On the sand. You’re about to say something—come on,

What is it,
Show me the wound in the fountain, time
In a rose quartz . . .we’ll hand each other
A slice of orange, a chocolate square,
Not a thing mistaken for. What rises
And turns over the rocks—the fire out of
The angel’s head, the mark that sparkles

Between this kiss and the next, carefree
And branded: the praying has started,
Pure silver mined out, the bells
Ringing us home through the snow,
Willing at dawn.


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