The blindness securing sacrifice was a crow begging for head.
The logic on the loudspeaker feeding the night with flourishment and
flourishment and more.
The moon
escapes through heavens,
low mounds,
storm mounds.
One flash at a time,
a saint
leaks into the air,
fastening the sky to the peacocking oar with its
toothless smile.
How
dare we see wakefulness and scour
the night for information to suggest?
Are there any empty points within us?
Scars in glass will never heal.
Permanence is so unforgiving.
A wheel of fortune rates the damage for us.
A
bomb of Juliet for the deep cuts.
A dog's pain for the mourners.
A
fox's blood for children whose moth gave.
A moth's grape for doom.
A canary
for sacrifice.
A
peony for betrayal.
Pomegranate for mutual destruction.
A dame to walk it for me.
The world's my fisty.