Leveler Poetry Journal
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Eidolon at Sea at Dawn


Half my age sunk,

shipped apart to disagreeing

fragmentary likenesses. Fragrantly,

the tidy shore grows back. The

piercings grow back. Very

lowly, my legs come back: boned-up.

The highest destroyer

lights at least on some surface.




For sight to happen,

loud vision, the mud earth

sings. At the bottom of seas

the bushes morph into

flora that look more like

mutant faces. There continued to be

a time for shooting. We were

always twelve years old and then never

usefully twelve. I can’t see through

the top, walkable layer of youth.




You are a bankrupt river

and you re-angled in mid-fall.

What you have to rain away

is used to being rained out.

The rushes are coming. Wrecking,

rising out of the shower.

One is full of insides spreading

shade to make a rapture happen

or else. Dawn’s paw hunks

off your shoulder. In that dead way

you are now mine. The abdominal

snowman. The wrought concept of

you is all mine.

Daniel D'Angelo