throngs emerge to see the bloodmoon
their cars coagulate our street
on mount tabor, the extinct volcano hill
that rises a view to distant glory.
i came up on the belmont fifteen,
as it reached my number
cars were doing scatterbrained ad litems
and the bus clipped a parked car,
another whale beached by minnows
waves and real things.
what seems a crowd is a hemorrhage
in a literary romantic way,
as our telescopes are tampons we carry for bulletwounds
or great mileage scars are worn on our sleeves
turning breath to a frame for sky
or the thing shaped meanly many
there for the show
there on a hill
feeling blood in a moon mostly tainted
by men and the things above.
2015
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