Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Under the Loam

O come to my crown of palms
salacious light
and saint them;

fall
tipped and plentiful,
a bucket of loam
burying ill-gotten claims.

O come and sprawl over and over...
a smug lady
sullied.

A bent back for hurried flurries.

The full burst of horizon light
in the keen cock of the whip

and pain about the temples
like motes of touch, like thrips.

Born as I am in the scope
of your incendiary grasp

burnt as I am, down to ashen alder

rising as I am, glorious phoenix:

manifest of your will.

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