Sunday 4 December 2011

Reaping

Collected in some correlation
The wild refrain-refracted night
Laid in your eyes – and there again
Brindled, burnt in rings upon a sky.
Were they angles - well?
What would matter
The mind in each inhuman crease
And sealed the wax which went to suffer
Upon mere two, their wicks still weep.

A pulse in tail of pastures heavy
Porous, poised beneath the siege
A stumbled act, in wet wool spinning
Sinew backwards into ends of sleep.

Trails of life aligned between the bough-heads
We crushed whole, in palms of liquorice leaves
Untouched – the mixed jet juice
Of man’s own myth
New veins below the opaque sleeves.

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