Soon, Without Purpose To The Glare;

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;