Sep 1, 2008

Midway 2

As from the flares of farflung stars escapes
fire's light as blonde as ingots so time trips
and with its finger furrows the maid that sleeps
where silver spittle pools and the cheek drips,
and so on: prattle of ghosts in sackcloth keening
where poison trickles on the inner ear
and tarns are glassed with ice and terns wheel where
all rosebuds die, where talk is stripped of meaning,
a wintered world beloved of nihilists
jammed full of nothings where our hopes betray us,
abandoned to the eating dusts of chaos
where black suns stall like clouds in standing easts
and flies roost in the trees and starve for a lack
of dying, quick as the hands of a stopped clock.


Sep 1 2008