Flash Powder
--Dean Young 
Tonight when I look out the hotel window,
the bells inside me are quiet but
they start up again walking through the park
to the statute of the sun stepping on
a giant crab. Sunset wears a crown
like a wound wears a crown.
Even then the gods are at work.
The eyes see something beautiful beyond,
the shells of attending snails twirling
like galaxies made into mathematical formulas
like flames trying to become a rose. It all
makes sense, promise the physicists
piling on more and more dark matter
like in a Lou Reed song. Please please
please, peals the oblongata.
What the fuck with everything. 

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