Call Me a Lyre, I Dare You

Bob Hicok
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Last or some night
light, who cares the when of this,
glittered the tree up at the end
of the wash from a car as moved the planet, I’m not
in touch with personally Saturn, in branched fi ngers
of eerily, I’d say off-the-shelf language, isn’t it
necessary still how life lit into the moment
to say other than the facts of it, see,
whatever the bits are inside that oscillate
or pinwheel, I was moved to internal whirring
cicadish, even though my epiphanic dog-walkings
mean shit to you in the throes of your
epiphanic askings of the moon, for what, after all
are we in this, some random sense of, fuck
if I know, belonging

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