PRAIRIE PIRATE SPHERES
I take the neck from the loon,
breaking it, and then we depart
for the lamb’s cholera moon.
In my under-things,
we row above the midnight state
of ambiguous folk scenes.
We watch the canoes
stop at the falls
to sell their podium glues.
Through moose ether
tolls peace’s stud fee.
Nothing is dangerous here.
Cleave, moon, this organic
cloud, grant stop/start
in borrowed Nordic.
The poet’s role
is to live aligned without
saying a thing shameful.
Primrose bindery lights the way.
Shit out a bird skeleton and
move to Apple Valley.
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