Friday, December 23, 2016

LIFE ZONES WITH SPICED APPLES THAT TICK ALL THE RIGHT BOXES

Emerald island dies
on the crackling earth,
dies flouting its solitude
under a hood of vapor,
cracks descending the soil
that had made its foothold.

And the deer turd path
punched into the snow
with the mold of the imprinted earth
radiating out of it; so that
my eyes dampen at the grace
so recently passed, and the caution
of the thumbprint in the soles
of my feet, weight of consciousness
planet wide stacked on erotic statues
only as a hat's brim scrapes the horizon
highways buried in blood cargo
holograms of private misinformation
fences knocked like paint
hide with the hornets.

Emerald island goes on closing its doors.

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