Revisitations VI
by Graham Myres
Blowing rain, seems soft through timeless hurricanes of candle meaning.
...dreading tribes of calculation, time.
Listen.
Each drop of meaning is a tree, an open wound, a pacified abyss, a
thundering riddle.
...where's the party?
Pessoa is on trial...
Ties and blows,
a melancholy of breeze, the letter x...
Close my embrace on an open night.
What party?...
Upon the breeze of direction, shifting gently, and then abrupt confusion,
twist the gains of realities which are warring and altogether too quiet.
Numbing enough to come to judge,
pass allowance to your sequined hand,
bring riddles to our endless night,
bring alms for all the quieted violins of our age...
...idea on the lookout for gold.
...my god.... Osiris - ha! I laugh at the guts of your competing
metaphysical monsters, my stick is
pointed and looking for a home...
Is there enough rain to settle this embrace, all the soulful staring at
changes made together;
golden roads and the mad palace looking down at us...
Modes of infusion.
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