We are exactly at the urgent orchards when
The
moon resounds like a knock on a door
And
we refuse O how we refuse to say
Moonstruck
though the word is on these
Voluptuous
pears we can smell the sound
Sexy
and simple as fear the way dim light
Falters
here beneath these trees the way
We
hear a crisp guitar and faint castanets
Hooray!
It’s a fandango we feel in our toes!
And
as we dance in three time a bruised fog
Floods
the hysterical grove a sluggish knee-deep
Current
pushing our legs with languid boredom
The
way the devil’s clerks recite fiercely slow
Inventories
of what and in what language?
Author Reading
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