Countenance – artificial draw-dropped red
The dew milk set sods of old rose thorns
In the hearts of Christmases. December dawn
Bore the sleep of the sky in its crumbled dust-chalk...
Creased chrysalises, warmed, the warp of gas
Leapt before us. Its crux cracked
Crept, like the uncut monkey, in the sledge of the
Scored flux
Splitting in rivalry, the smut of the Alan key.
Almost in victory...
The disembowelled headboard, a victim of anarchy
A coil of dressers caressed at a left edge
Spurting their filigree.
Smells of soot afterwards, still warm with monotony
Beating bold benedictions, the ticking clock
Hollowly
Another quarter, they brought you
From the edge of the gallery, as I slid my mind back again
Down the dregs of an alleyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment