Noonlight whiskey, an
Irish sun slips through the
boughs of his dreams
and fractures. Dusty flecks
of hazel float
in the wake of his thoughts like
love
sailing through a loner's
sleep. Or
sleep
coursing through a
lover's skin. The nodless trees have tunnel
vision. They trap
some truth between their branches, some
we walk upon.
Copper on clover. Copper
and clover.
The nodless trees have heads like
Rudolph's sleeping cap, in
the Meath
where everything falls but
does not
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