A Rebirth


On the horizon, that line of
earth and sky near Limbo,

there's a circle and chain for every star in the night
made of baby powdered fresh flesh holding the shoulders

of Infamy. And to his back--at the completion of circles--
rests wrinkles of old man cane-age. Both at the cusp

of divinity, cradle and casket, puppeteer and
puppet. They march slowly, arms to shoulders to arms,
through grey, settling dust;

groaning at maracas and pom-pom triangle hats;
whimpering through rainy mornings and cotton
candy skies; staggering

to stand on two legs then three--a short
diorama of life and evolution--to see

mountain tops and valleys, parking lots
and ocean views.

This is the circle life, the pathway to death.
A rebirth on the horizon, that line of earth and sky
near Limbo.

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