Snow
I was a child, I was a child; the visceral hands flush the petals through the eyes, willing the sheets
white,
Memory groomed by the sickle in the eyelid, a compass ignites.
I am soil, I am soil; the wreath of poppies gurgles the Mitino Cemetery down the pipe, tucking in
Kites,
Mercury coltish limbs brass-rubbed, specious premature night.
I sing acid, I sing acid; the candles of skin, vexed, smother, visiting every hurt as kin to
Write
Maps of cold pollen sleep, a Morse code death flight.
Cynthia Buell Thomas
Mon 21st Sep 2009 12:54
It sings, Marianne. What a command of language you have. Its beauty of vocal sound is almost enough in itself. But the thoughts also come imperceptibly into your mind, like melody hidden in disparate chords.