Where Does Tomorrow Sleep?

Can you see Hyperborea's sun, shadowless 

valleys where you cut word with tooth?

An unfettered wound stutters, blowing null what

primordial utterance it will.

Where does tomorrow sleep, your prospect in

stomach, cramped with fluxing ones and zeros?

As soon as you spoke your abstraction was pardoned.

Your home's abutted geography made its revolving

bally.

Dizzy you, concentric circles closing in, advising their

babe press forth.

Mythopoetic proud as hell of its circuit, a metaphysical

luminary midwifed in an etheric manger.

Shadows mark their growth about our encampment--

God's peripheral nomads etching story.

Shelter bids welcome, unwelcome everywhere--its

doors blown about as the literature of distances.

Konstantinos Mark