in every day something "last"
is reborn in the sun
and in the moon we find a
trace of extinct species #343
how did it get there? we ask
who is the Great Builder of Bridges?
when we ask the question
the doorway screams when we enter
we hide in the doorway as we are told
when the earth takes a vacation
I am the raiment hanging over the fence
drying in the rain as ravens peck the clouds
Hollywood is not Stratford
but illusions will have their out all the same
the Police are now working as Ushers
in the Theater of the Real
this is where a door enters the audience
and Director declares truce with the cast
in time our greatest rages will be gossip
for the amusement of French grandmothers
how did we get here? it asked
only the Police have the keys to the Door
the Director has declared
that Stratford is not Hollywood
I am the dark raiment
covered in raven shit
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