Inside the beacon, someone
found the blue eyed lamb hung;
throat frilled as gunnysack,
sea-cold,
in the first field of the coming sun.
Atlas and Axis disengaged;
both strung and trapper.
Music of death-rattle.
Selena’s tracks between used
rubbers, and chocolate wrappers.
How many nights before death,
caught in mooring rope,
the stars washed in so low
a tall man might knock his head;
the moon stooped enough to hang his coat.
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