Easter
Blurred between nonbelief and velocity
I make my home on the farm of dreams;
my friends are the hopping sheep, the sweat-
shop chickens, the lolling cattle. We dare
to vault the moon, and propelled
by three hundred sixty four days of momentum
I carve a world, spluttering pastel and glitter.
Why believe in this magic but not the other?
A host of modern world conjurations
wash out the book, dilute miracles
we once held sacred. What is real
is what we make real, or otherwise.
Sunday, April 04, 2010
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