Mosquito song
in the june night this dream
the house borne on the foam of the cherry
trees
to the gurgling wash of the drowning birds
beneath a bell jar frailer than the mirror
of the fjord
my sleep the egg of a wren: a wall of
whitewash and optical illusion strained to
bursting point
quiveringly planted in the dark in the
white a sail
and silently there pecks an unseen beak
on the mirror’s membrane of wind and salt
the burst is imminent
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