DANGLES
Spanish moss
no moss at all, just green nooses
dying like the banners on riderless horses
turned home from the war
the dance of some snake, bored out of his
skin window, bare, powder film on his flesh
the rain on the shingle
prayers unfinished because
you fell asleep
to dream of cabbages, of moth and moon
and jugs of pinot
old math teachers, madmen with crooked
glasses and sagging
pockets
turning over: the sheet
beside your half-fisted hand
that glides to the floor
like
night
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