Height forward it strikes up and around
the back of the light that has found its
sacred mass and checked into the statement
book its earmarks and figures ink strained
vestal slithers of spit and scissors
no bits of cleaned winters or scenes
in which winners were cleaned or make good
on their splintered and laughing queen
or the peeking dark reptiles that lay in the park
or the leaking round pipes that conveyed the water
from up high to down here with the fish in the sky
tasting rare absolutions and making roses out of putty
hands that spin cakes out of clean stories or leave
glory are spent, over and expend their claim to fly
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