Big Game



Cataleptic truants freeze
under jack-hunting headlights,
the encircled perimeters disgorging
crestfallen aviary sonatas.
Prescient with full moon armature
locked against a sullen vest.
no tidy amateurs replay
the auteur's role under
the shortfall of brightening shadows.
Tractor suppositories implode
the hand-held gesture,
filing rough edges of gesticulations
grown tired with envy. Their call
to penumbral tropes inveighs
tactile folly, isotopes their
practical core. Legions of light
relay seven points of fictive ego
amusing as moonlit factotums
edging warily toward the bucks
shot before going on the chase.


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