the opposite of flow

The day tore its maiden away from
A restless chore that chipped at

the knowing core, and when cold
Silence rapped its head on the salt

Of knowledge, the breath on her
Wall knew much, but not that much.

dogma is groveling in a shark’s
basin of blood; an

hour misspent miscalculated mis
timed; dogma is an

archangel, elephant-nosed, left
sightless as if an

effortless speech is graven and
triangulated often

It is the facile tilt of
inconsequence that creeps a

silent shame into a voluminous
bleed; an unholy bridge to

oppose the river of calm,
daring it to cease flow, plot

ting charter of the opposite
of rhythm; it fits in, this

loopiness, somehow, somewhat, in
this smorgasbord of discolor.

The tight lip of the sun’s
method to gladness is rife

with the burn of angels and
the care of retired quarks

orbiting at a level below the
moon’s celebration of night.

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