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I’ve been shooting at stars

in lazy floods

all day in this Rapture,

hoping I strike a piece

of you so it will fall in diamond,

green Liberty frost, something I can chew on.

Your braided dream lilies were wound

with uranium dowsing rod bits crafted

this way by an alchemist in a deleted scene

from a silent noir. It is for this space ordained

you, this panel rifling, midnight’s confessional lit

in your belly button, and here, your kiss bitten

psychophage waiting for your heart’s Host

to fall with the flipper women gathered

beneath these spinning Roman columns,

hungry as dimming light bulbs

ringing one after another.

Editing stage: 


I have come to the conclusion that the joy of abstract poetry, that being a poem with no obvious theme, is about the "experience of reading it". Similar to our reaction to abstract painting. Words and images are charged, but the poem exists in its own universe. Like most of Wallace Stevens.
It is not my preferred poetry, but I respect the nice word play and images, as I do a good abstract painting with its colors and forms.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance
ee cummings

would agree. But the poem should still be memorable--like Wallace Stevens' poetry. Thank you.

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