Death

By the canefields at dusk.

From solidarity and desire, the trace of winter’s end,
Will I always remember that? I see people
Scowled on their prophecies, and dreams from before
Are never nearly settled in the impression of first want—
With these rhythmic ghosts upon red petals, and in the distance
The beauty of the dew—vanishing in deeper silence—
Terrifying their own voices nightmarish with unease

blanket me.

blanketing the red koi leaves of grass / the ambrosiac death
naked in a dance / under the moon; heart whittled / a sea sings the backbone and root of grief

am I still ill?

A fissured father of stone,

poisoned by the vale, a bridal’s helm

rushing through the billow waves, I billow

blood from the clouds, awaiting for the frost

dead uncles in May with his ghost;

Mirage.

Into a phantom sleep,
the icy dark blooms in phantasy
and it carried away to the sojourns of the past

Solstice.

I’m sick of you, blood-fat trees. The city is predatory like your fragile mother; or god really, but who am I to judge? Solstice bless a darker planet

alter ego.

the Prometheus death fit for humankind,
take it then
take it and see how we are born,
see how we’ll die.