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.