A Postcard of Conception

a postcard of conception

now bows our incomplete.

salvation crawls four corners of a mile

through streets now surplus relics biting back.

cat-gut alone no cure the hanging sun

stranded in a bandaged disarray

somewhere between the ears of kingdom come;

summer solstice bears her loins

sharper than a tongue

bleeding moral fibre on the spines forgotten son;

high-ground or valley deep?

we ponder as we sleep between the choices we explore.

mouth to mouth

or spoon-fed to the lung?

will the fallen pine re-root and climb again?

these choices for the better or the worse

in cathedral of helium 

squeaks and squarks delirious and loud!

how many rats stand poker-faced

straight-laced with eyes that glare uncivilised?

a postcard of conception;

written without purpose in my lounge of discontent.

a heavens scent

no longer reaches close enough to see

nor dares confess to still remember me;