Monday, November 4, 2013

Stephen Ellis


The moon, full
and orange at
the horizon,

out of an east
that has been
misplaced, rises

from a declivity
of pines, and pales
through the garment

of atmosphere
become thin. Maybe
the sky becomes

a trench in which
blood flows
upwards, as an orange

streetcar on
the rails of some
foreign city,

nothing I could have
expected, but
gradually brightening

with advice. If
you don't know in
what ways you've been

dislocated, don't just
stand there and apologize
on a telephone:

Suffer the evolution
and live with
the imagined slights,

looking to find
in the thing no longer
lost, the full

veins on the backs
of the hands of
another's experience.


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