Wish
the trees could have been
the ‘scaries’ in Where
The Wild Things Are
and the gravel was a mystical
walk in way too real fogbanks where
unseen insects whirred in magnitudes and
ecstasies of universal chime but then
an owl like six-cloaks-built-
into-the-body-of-a-warlock swooped
a sigil of defiance until a star dared to profess,
slipping through the shapeless roam of
a fluid cirrus to tilt some vagabond game.
what rules were these, anyhow,
and could, really, a faraway
wish-hungry poet ever win?
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