Barnstormers

Pull up socks where the wet and mud
collide and make clay that holds firm.

The walls insulate each hurried pulse
beside a blood-red thermos that sweats.

Leather and cloth hang on loose scenery;
decorated rock and groaning branch.

The earth is an iced cake and it has plates
and faults and grumbling, hot secrets:

if you are silent, you can hear them
‘neath the clack of a plastic eye or the

fizz of a reel that has no end. In hot light,
whiskers hold sway and we live or die.

Frozen in gold and buried with each
shining moment, we will storm forever.

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