(It)

Accompanied by blessing,
to wit attached, because wind
and it live life the same, lying along
one horizontal strand of dream—
in the abbey, where the cross walks
on stockinged legs, speaks in
hymns, treads out wine in spring—it
explores people’s travelling
thoughts, the antennae of
their eyes, as daytime curls
and expires it drones, a dissipating
haze of strange translations of
its desires, and in the abbey more softly
they speak, it beats wings in hopeful
advance of their short lives—it,
it, it

closes eyes as they do, and
sleeps, and dreams, and lies.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

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