Golden dregs…
{no one writing | the obituaries of | grasshoppers or | mayflies}
You put my body down | We have called to the stones for so long, and now they have come to us
Gross and gorgeous | I | roi soleil | across a room like a | sea | The sunken | galleons of my thoughts | drip and spew pearls as | they are salvaged | This is my Levée, you may attend, only | be quiet and | suitably | blinded | as I | rise
Do you remember when | waist-deep in ocean waves | we held each other, and the Pacific | urged us up and | down | so we | stood on tip-toes, and had no | thought of the snow?
Dawn’s lapdogs
Yes, unfathomable…
I can’t count the paths I took to get away from here | So how is it | I am back?
We put our | threads of | electrical | diamond fuss | between | stone | and | stone
{cobweb in the frost, February 2009}
Exiled to the past, and buried in those graves of words | which, for so long, had no need of sense | the childish legionaries climb out | and hand to me their stage-set stones | vouching for their innocence
{rifts of time between | moment | and | moment || grief of ego, thoughts of you in swirling snow}•
•
from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, August 2012)
hypergram 