Under a Tabloid Moon

I

A clear afternoon. Forgive me
like the brass-loud horns
against the blinding snow of a hillside.

Cosmo Monkhouse has just begun to deliver
a eulogy over his very own corpse.
And smartly he just said it: Forgive me.


Drifts of nitrogen
crossing his hallucination of an original savannah
bordered by a yellow swamp.
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