George Amabile



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A fuzzy half-moon hangs from the bruised night.

It looks as though it has become infected

with some as yet uncatalogued fungus, tenacious

as angelhair. It has lost its place

in the old stories — Astarte, Nanna,

His-wang-mu, or the Mexican Trickster

Conejo—and must be content

with its role as pock-marked veteran

of obscure plagues and wars,

the unearthly darkness packed like grease

around a bearing

that won’t hold up much longer.

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