soon, without purpose to the glare
brain-bends and bucketless spiders shells
snarl with the anger of the burning robe
twisting on a mile songs dry stampede;
cutters of the archers and the guided flare
stretching the sleeves of an unconscious wake
as dawn bags a fidget from a sleep
seperating the arrows from the days;
thin gristle on a flat line chase
chews through the sinus of a shoestring sheet;
two seagulls lost on a plague of ice
both seeded and kneading their horse-dough grief;
so where hides the second thumb of the lame priest?
on a feather beach with his cow hands bandaged and clean!
the unmasked grains of the churcbell sand
now stutters with the footprints of the portrait slayer;
how steep the fall of a yesterday sorrow
a northern star with a southern cross
each with a cryptic tail of a comets flame
spinning tales with a white gardenias shadow;
soon, without purpose to the glare
mohair throws with buttons for the closing down
straddles the corners of the cycle
paddling the waters of a parallel sky;