The ear, a fox, emerges from a cloud
of thunder perched above the universe:
the European headline in the crowd crows
copper morning from a hidden hearse.
Out of the flesh the jagged glass protrudes:
the sky is gleaming in the broken lenses
tapping the blood of giant platitudes;
scarred by hallucinations, roam three tenses.
Through mists of moss, the future’s tom-toms come:
the past is dragging statues through the rain:
the present lives in spirals, hiding from
the starlight at the eyeballs of the brain:
the Buzzard’s two great eyes of sun and moon
pop from the iron forehead of high noon.
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