Blood son
snatched from an undersea wave
Earthshape tied to the door
with shoulders pointed into the hazy caldera bloom
of night’s paradise
Spiral arms still have a few worlds to say
stirring from their outpost
Enlivened by half fallen zones of slanting sunds
Heads beating like poison wells
Phosphenes
Brute radiance
will rattle you without mercy
bringing the symphonic web of some new tragedy underground
Mouth shaped fog waiting inside columns
Ride them into the hot gates!
Lean forward into the next neighborhood
Wingless clock bludgeoning on
Its hooked string comes to make you sell
like a snakebite from the future
Yet sleep still stands
near the great avenues and capricious domains of street lamps
and frozen fire
