Monday, March 3, 2014

draft worksheet


Like sponges dipped in nude
a kiss of guess on the lids-like
discloses its thicket shed, eye-cro meld—

Dawn blinds hair before face
or thornless angelus deceives
but I faint on the figure-eight.

Apparently newshour once came
to complete me but time seems
to indicate moot might intervene

if I with blazing rations wait.  Yet
one little breath is misting itself
in suspension, a snapped off twig

or sap that jumps these yawns:—
art's aspirations leapgap, they make
the ripples on the lake linger

with circle-sorcery.  Kindest
thought when all is lost, stray
dice tossed in a flagmap coffin.

Limbs are lethal clamped in sate—
but elusive lines on our palms
resemble a key's cut, jag-edged

to unlock fate's chain-chart.  Future—
refuting that god who lets opposites
stride your unsaddled carpets.

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