Displaced
maples gesture
like a zealous choir,
not in praise of gulls
who salt a vast indigo,
but that pearl of eternal shining:
honey-giver
over decidous temples,
hallelujah, the golden teat!
squirrels tussle
to rile a cone-rich duff,
riding the chthonic roots
of the two-faced maples near
a single scalloped doubloon,
long stolen from its underwater cove.
calcified, the lonely trinket,
gooey with marl,
tilts as if hunkered down,
a sad mollusk’s tomb,
fleeing alien oxygen.
no advocates with gills
in this upside down world
to offer comfort, let alone
explain.
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