Atop an old mountain in the Kingdom of Sundrey
cold rinsed by the electric black crystal with moon,
a smooth pearl in oystered night clouds
sun’s lotion smeared over half its cratered body.
Not a breath
but the wind can wait.
So blow your angles
set sail the clouds
reveal the geometry, the king of tides.
And as for all the battles fought in the hills of the sky,
betwixt the starry nerves of the heavens
the moon remains still,
an origami eye above and beyond coastal cliffs
driving the universal oceans of our blood.
No comments:
Post a Comment