The tree creeps on its knees.
The dead branch aims, in the last light.
The cat-bird is telescopic.
The sun’s escape
Shudders shot
By wings of ashes.
The moon falls, with all its moths,
Into a bird’s face.
Stars spark
From the rasp of its cry.
Till the moon-eater, cooling,
Yawns dawn
And sleeps bark.
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