Rexall

on the table is a word
followed by dozens of
other words lying next
to each other in lines of
instruction, warning and
grief

although the moon has
dropped her pretty face
i pick her up by her wise
chin and beg her to shine
again

the stars in my moon’s
hair dance like beams
in a driven stony river
where the bones of time
soak unto the soil of my
bloods

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