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Tracing After Math of Sticks

The fused shadows japan
off the small
ladder, each rung
forging on the night
highway: a transparent iron
escape on the oil truck
ahead of me. Its
punishes my ride into
inebriated smiths working off ancest
elixir, dath le fuil *
of empty asphalt
in lines that fall
to riddles—undiscernable
and wide with the consistency
of an arachnoid invitation
that's less than a head attachment
falling back to laugh the same
with time, and a spine smelling
the hook molten
to gamy rocks; rocks
that admire the mustard
and raw pthalo scales
being ruined by perfecting
their coulisse before the garden
bruises: a skinned window
filmy as eggs, jeweled as
sacs of larva. Patient
symbols herb and unanswer.

* dath le fuil, ( da-le-fool ), v., [ Gael.] color with blood .

5 Apr 12

(define the words in this poem)

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