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As storm from sunset umbellated wheatawns diademed
atop the hill between the town and woods where vultures rise
but never land and nippled bights along the tracks from pole
to pole bejeweled and nictated neath the sparrowfeet
and holy chutes began to spotlight centric oaks in soyfields
as passed the Amtrak whose lit windows made the storm darkle
the more, perversed the first and final sun as did porchlights
streetlamps and windows darkling these Magritte façades, sublunar
night fore night, an eastern rainbow then another for
phylactic panglossers whose mentalité sublates umwelt
welter welkin weald for weal. Nicotined babytooth palmar
said Bel to Az, as apophatic decalogue ukases,
a bit of ichor on cuspids: This dusk’s a faggot; bet dawn’s
a tranny’s bloody asshole…Look, um, Az…He put the tooth in wallet
and grinned up at the drunkeyed lightning’s compass, the um Bel ate:
Night for night we use enough we’ll know for sure a reason’s
never found except in awe exultance praise…up late enough
to call dawn dusk…Asked Bel: You think it will grow back?

  Joseph Harmes

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