we played with our patina
she called the West
said it was best
to cardinal-handle
any vent politics...
our purest insistence(s)
tongue honey the stung silence(s)
we surrendered our eyes to all portal now(s)...
this, we beg
is our ocular seance
to the nose king,
our scented lights, court
ritual forested tells...
we've remembered
and begun the spun
calling out
of the rest
of our names...
the shore assures
us what the sea knows
mountain and rain
ash and countenances
overnights, with the tide
coming in, Winter stalking strangely
where these old iron spines
bleeding-ly dig in
and everything bends
swaying to the North
this time of year...
EJR ©
No comments:
Post a Comment
Hello there ...