A poem.

another morning,
another full moon –
entombed in this Pacific Northwestern Khartoum.
please Stargate rights-holders, don’t sue!

the waste paper basket is in full bloom
from all the other times the sacred rheum
once every thousand years was blew,
filling the air with its spume perfume.
the city won’t come around until the sun hits aground
so it’s too early still to exhume.
i exhale…