the arrival comes not from the expected shroud,
the groundless shroud, never veiling my shoes.
it mushrooms from the hills
over the backs of long buried dinosaurs
and makes a crooked grid of orange orchards vanish.
it's a kimono for moonlight, a colony of ghost coral
that strangles the sunken vessels of our homes.
from our speckled windows we see ribbons drifting,
chasing each other into the milky confines of night.
hungry for the spaces between the street lights.













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