In the supermarket parking lot,
the pigeons now caught
in the renewed yellow---
look like doves to me.
The eclipse has passed
and earth has remained the same:
and Rahu cannot eat the sun,
and groceries in my bag, I head
home,
to make my lamb, to enjoy my
Borges,
to lie down and drink my beer:
and wake for the next day.
The Christians were wrong:
the earth ends every day.
And I will wake to rebirth,
to samara lifting themselves
from the ground to the heights
of the trees that abandoned them.
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