a false prophet shall cry out from behind
the stormy drain and make me stain my

acts with rust of gain; mute then the
rage of vision as it clicks away reason

to a harried priest; slough off the kind
act of the thrushbird jostling each verb

with an ounce of rain; the dewdrop is
cancelled for lack of warmth and mist.


The bird does not befit
the glance that it gets

from foreshortening; the
dip in depth is scary as

life cannot bleed if artful
reconnaissancing reconnects

with evidence only to deem
it less worthy of aperture

Perforate the dry ash-bin, suck
The leaflet out of tomorrow’s

meandering; the gulf is left out
manned, out spanned by rusted

outlets pillaging an outrust,
an outwrought pier amidst sea.

the sweet harp of earth
harks the tug of spill

and the moss of whitened
claws sunk in mildew

heaven; create the drooping
mat with care, with the

touch of an alchemist praying
sullen to the fallen god & dust.

the dread in capturing the thill
that draws heaven to dirt is

wisdom, is hurt; the fear that
makes your heart thunder is pale

in comparison to the color of
rinsed noon, the fate of its red.