The moon she screamed
above the English countryside
& all of night's kin fell,
radiator-rain, down & Nobody
pressed on, his bilbiomantic
scrying done, the boon
of years & nightmares
& the abuse of letters
& names, to where the hare's
booty had to be hidden in
a hole in the ground;
& Nobody dug said
hole & within he found
nothing but a note
saying finders keepers
& that means my dog on a rainy
day in November no
less & moreso, dogged, too,
was the din of the god of noon
who said secrets hid
in finding were
not secrets at all but thorns
or spears buried in Nobody's
side, & in his suffering
he took shelter, took
measure as cats &
mice splattered from the
heavens onto Soho's
good little girls & boys;
& Nobody raised index &
pinky fingers toward said
heavens, shook his metal
fist in the face of
our faceless Allfather,
& then he wondered which way
was up, if he had been merely
dowsing without a rod from under
sodden forelock & still the drainpipes
overfloweth with sewage, the surf
is up, & Nobody shoots the tube
through Midgard, gnarly & flushed
in spirals counterclockwise.
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