Sunday, June 7, 2015

Et in Arcadia, Ego

The moon
 written in paper veins
Whistling grass
Your skin
Cool
Now warm
Brine
Tanned, stretched
Twisted onto bone
Bound
Now flapping free
Your being enveloped
And voided
Nothingness
Rooted
In your stalks.

Smoothness crumples
No one sees
redness
Pulsing
Directionless
Searching for the Nebula
Which, once blue
Told us of entropy
Of cold distance
Disparate
Disappearing
Darkness

Matters.

2 comments: