POEM IN TIEFMOS
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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