pushing light-bugs suspended in space
aside like some imaginary water
you come to what is water proper
a silver lake a sliver of the sky
with a gnarled tree angling for the drowned moon
this was an old man negro once but now
the denizens avoid calling it so

what denizens my ass

the thing that came here claiming to be you
is so thickly feathered it must be in fact
an alien avian creature of nocturnal
persuasion and you push the air
with wing stumps just glimpse within that silver
pity the air is too rare to take off
stitched through with the light-bugs to imitate its presenсe
water is much thicker than water
dreamt up by someone who never was a fish

it is not proper you and the fake wings
do not hold one aloft and if there is
such thing as water they will have to scoop it
out to extract the silver to forge the stars
for this landscape half-way into oblivion
ruled by the old man with no name or race
you see your own beaked image glaring at you
the tree the moon deep down and you hoot


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