Friday, May 29, 2015


Violet, is a part of the spectrum
on the stone rim of the spring trough
through the air of another world to the peak of a shingled roof
no swamps, no oil
filth revolving before my eyes
through the thin frame walls of the houses sun slanted down into the shadows
tubercled underflesh was stained rust
the tattered remains of the baitfish a galaxy of ancient cities
the nest like a vending machine of dash lights
on walls the dark beyond the red in books is dropping
revolt and aesthetic research in a profane world of sacred ritual.

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