When the old origami



the crash of pieces


formed us

hymnal-print white


down where the tilted day

first moved in the clefts  

glistening over scattered moss


and aboriginal hoofs


that had escaped the ghost

but not the blood.


Dividing the fur

like a mountain silhouette

gradually erased by a darkening red atmosphere,


ripe green swords

bore our faces


under the fetal chandelier

of giant stars.



by Daniel Gillespie


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