with light long enough?
Even the bleakest angel
with deeply downturned eyes
shakes her head and says a bemused
No.
For some reason I am expected to go on
with a smoke sail
flashing through a handkerchief flag
with a stacked garden
slamming into my tidal kneecaps
as the forked lightning
combs the fractal yard
and the rain disembarks
from the sulfur of a painted space ship,
I am expected in canyons
where trees hang flanks of gallery space
and marble squares
out-maneuver my floating skull
zones where the girls in my beard
sound a dissecting chorus,
flats of rectilinear light
rented out by an android mania
adrift in ceaseless transit
puffed by flashing grass
into succulent stratosphere,
a wailing leg with seven mouths
like soil that called me south.
No comments:
Post a Comment