Matt Gilbert

 

 

 

 

Imitation Moon                            

 

 

The sculpture, Imitation Moon, is missing

from where it always stood in the fountain

 

surrounded by foxfire. From where it stood

at midnight on the farm sick with love,

 

the animate coyotes howling human screams

and like the statue eating their prey

 

by falling upon it. Where could it be

and why couldn’t you be there too,  

 

standing guard over delicate sand castles

of living rooms; where you missed the lounging 

 

of people cut out of magazines for collage

or capitalization, their best sides facing you.

 

Imagine following its drag of footprints

into the raw mountains, where sleep is 

 

surrounded by lit candles and the candles

are never in the drawer where you left them.

 

Where the railway yard wears a crown of stags,

hearts clean, a hawk’s shadow crossing faces.

 

You could have been born anywhere, but here

is your first and only one; you know no other.

 

Here, where you stand along the garden,

the home, the hospital room of your forever,

 

still so as not to disturb the bees scenting

stood hairs on your arms, the greatest thing

 

a statue could ever say being that it once

fucked a small amount of roses, constantly.

 

 

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