Poem #62
And the matchbox wanes with the bloody knuckle,
Mosaic from glassed chin
Catching the morning stars as they sang as one,
Burning to the cuticles
A gibbous wax by which night uncomsuming
Lifts our papier-mâché wires
To chalices of novae in the expanse
Of their everlasting seepage:
Bruises pooling by skylight at the hilts of
Charred palms, groping for shapes in
Blindness, searching for song and stardom, lit by
Nothing by incineration
As they decide the outlines of dotted Gods.
- Malb 15/07/2011 00:42
