Love, the world is reckless with children
shooting starlings in the elms,
biting balloons into bloody shreds.
You are afraid of the window
riddled with dahlias
of the lawn hot with leaves
of the dead rising, their bones
enameled in moonlight, in the churchyard.
You hitch to Hartford to cop acid
and come back to The Book of the Dead,
the Tarot pack, the Anglican Church
across the road impaling a star
on its spire. The moon is a disturbance, rising
flat and horrid as a mirror.
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