Saturday, April 19, 2014

I could incinerate new melody from this side
of your bed, having erased the catapult
from recidivist experiment
of a prescribed recovery

No verbs do due diligence,
we carve what we have craved all night
toward de minimis detraction
as the repertoire pretends

a revolution as the prophet wore it out
while dappled from a lake
called retribution. I see the feather
dried now fall, a feathery

precipitation scalded now re-framing
warm sky bowled up over our
young hearts. Shrapnel packed down
into some tin thing heartily in brackets.

No comments:

Post a Comment