Monday, February 15, 2016

wig surplus prayer poem graft

that for a time
in a space for the unknown
the wide frail foot
of its word
the gentle humor of its deformity
and the miracle of its composition
some discount
this great summons
but behold
in the central yellow yolk
of an any color sun
there is an eerily
wild blind horned head
the caterpillar staff
from beyond internal gateways
of beauty
it could be anything
there is a nothing more subtle
a nothing
that moves itself around
games to be played
in skin music
how odd when the sound goes up
in the great domocile
how stirring
the graven plasma
as it parts to the brow stem