Paul Vargas

Carriage Barn

Spilled a moon illusion
from Boissert to the Boissert.
Bassoon swoons too soon.
Crack lame. A bench for loons.

Moon illusion drawn to hound
a stacked haze. Three feet deep,
and soaked by noon.

Strewn but bound smack to the rafters.
Rope around a brick and some good aim.
  It’s cinched: we croon, then split.

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