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On Physiography

Lucas Farrell

The moon is snoring like the fattest of all babies

Its soft, fragrant flesh / spilling into the night

Crippling its bassinet

which is darkness

which is silence

Is angry

The stars hang around

like a mobile

being swatted at

Unconsciously / between snores

by soft palms

Baby palms

Now the stars hang around

like a menace of teenagers

who I want very badly / to beat the positive

hell from


I can become very angry

in like a second

It’s my behavior

& I want to hurt


the actual thing / that may or may not be

the actual baby of my rage

It’s regrettable

most of the time

It’s because I want my language

very badly

to function

the way light does

when it wipes away darkness

from my window

Each morning / Like a sponge

A huge & uncompromising

& filthy

White one

A positive / stench factory

First light / Bad light

Baby light

& I’m awake just to witness

this anger / This wipe—

Is terrific

For if I had any say

the sun would be a tree

Would be positively fruit-bearing

& the fruits would be babies

Fat snoring babies

Which are LOVE

& I’d hang around like the stars

or like the sun’s amanuensis

which is the moon

whose parcelling out of the light / births this tree

Births this LOVE

There is no way that the farmer

selling the second cut / of his fields

His vast open fields / at half the price of the first

His bad, boundless fields

Could possibly be / as enraged

as I am / At how insatiably transparent

this is

Lucas Farrell

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