£

This is the place the end never touched
The place of dusk’s afterward first to awake

The prophet’s severed index
The prophet’s severed tongue

This is the place the end never touched
The place of the cave from whence passages

Of Milton and Bach fork
Off the pallet of the One,

Now merging into the single utterance
For which Darkness trembles for speed

Of His Light

 
0
Kudos
 
0
Kudos

Now read this

Sonnet in which Angels Do Not Age, Neither Do Clouds

A folk tale of rook-pecked corpses and rusty bicycles For which the pink elastic strings of the fable’s bikini Has been washed too many times Like laying A flaming palm branch of donkey shit at your door After S– stood you up twice for... Continue →