Carousel
Dense night is a needs thing.
You were lured
in a luminous canoe
said to have once ruled
a lunar ocean.
The 2 am soda pour
of stars is all but silent;
only listen —
sedater than a sauropod
in the bone epics
it spills all the moon spice,
releasing a sap odour
that
laces
us to a vaster scale
of
road opus.
A carousel of oral cues,
these spinning sonic coins.
A slide show of old wishes.
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