How the knobs within certain doors fasten their hinges to my ceiling, during the hours of my own apocalypse; bursting into clouds.

Is this not standard for poetry?

Wits of a madwoman, how she writes the scores this evening.

That tattered bell in multitude and proportions, shimmering sequins from out, and beneath her dress.

Constellations within the drawers of the aorta full of notes th...

Read and leave comments (1)