the sky is a film
of tangled concatenations -
pauses and fits of
spangled elations
and paisley palls strung out
along a furrowed brow
which is sometimes heard
to crack on a milky bough,
igniting a dome
full of murky pitch
- and Apollo runs along
the seam with a stitch…
oh you who were sent
to put the clouds in motion,
to lead them on in
festal procession -
the sky is an elixir,
the breeze a potion
- what you lose as birthright
you gain as possession -
advising Pharaoh,
interpreting dreams
through slick, flung figures high on
the purpling remote
of a sloopy flow
and held fast by prickly beams
on the swirling and
many-colored coat
- while the quiet blades are given
their sleepy due
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