Leveler Poetry Journal
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too ra loo ra

come on Eileen

we will creel across

the wicker moon

burning the night with love

a blackburn

to forget the


I swear

I am a fox at this moment

pathetic and domesticated

by trash-cans

and suburban plastic patios

I’m tired and my muscles are fat

you         hawk

more brindle than I

(or maybe sophisticated)

the kind of nuance that curls round the

edge of a wing in flight

the rareness of meaning that supports

our soaring traces

I’m waiting for you

in a noisy glen

under a billboard

for your raptorial coupling

to slip into my spine

and penetrate the nerve

that will make me a hunter


Ron Green