in a quarantine state of mind
hiding beneath the foxfire from the bee sting
as the shadow on my windows lung
spreads slowly through the callous of my hide;
with cold wall screams
clutching tightly the echoes of my days year
I bear my soul to the white horse drips
pounding my ceilings shores
draining the carpet of my slow crawl blood;
once more as cups the darkness of the face
the thin laced mother
smothers the swelling on my chest
as the shoes of the heavy horses mane
tramples the golden vampires treasured breast
and suckles instead
the endless pointing mustard peppers stake;
through the cracks of the midnight glare
brassing the taps on my doors
starbright and weaving fingers for the silk worms kin
how I have aged with the marrow in a dead seed well
spinning with the four walls of my grave;
am at home with the florist in her red onion dress
now blessed with the fourth seasons trowel
fathering a clarinet child
farming the strings of her harp
in a quarantine state of mind
spinning with the four walls of my grave;