my Dante lives
devine as I precarious of comedy and greed.
we must wait our turn
while idols sit and read their modern verse.
no joy is felt through the dried leaves of our pain.
hemoglobin feeds our blood-shot eyes
to our satellite and stars
where our shadows in the fallen snow
each one a marvel still un-recognized.
my soul no longer sings as one complete.
love and heart being both the very thing
that nature takes from the tails of snakes
and gifts us all blackberries, soot, and spring;
neither health nor sleep
nor the primrose dressed as she who shares her grief
with the fine white lines of cinnamon and thieves;
save me the pleasured mood I dare not touch.
each dream descends from the city of the crotch
to the one I miss so much
where her fine white lines of cinnamon and thieves
through me the way that runs among the lost.
my Dante lives
devine as I precarious of comedy and greed.
you are a long time gone
it just seems I am the one you miss the least;