Prophecy

Little fate passed away late last night

at a tender age in the Orchard

The salty grass grows long and longer

The calendar with maple leaves

pricks pins of the old and older

Our friends stripping trees of their bark

snapping bites from the wind

Our enemies in the clock

slip out unnoticed

single file

wrapped in bandages and falling apart from falling apart

There are women too

In oh-so-perfect paganism he is the first-born

who blinds himself from himself

The crow is coming ladies

He has not passed yet

He is cloaked in fur and berry-black ink

I appeal to a lower angle of space

a candlestick in a candlestick holder and not at an altar 

the unmovable path of flame

Later in the morning

a snake between my limber toes

the woman I will love beautiful as easy streams

her breasts bitten

her lips misted in a spiral of soft melodies

The woman I will love will braid a locket in her hair

An auburn cradle and that will be that for the ghosts

who aim their shackles at nymphs and nomads

Later still appear these demons out of clouds

who wear out these winds and wound-up dolls

The wellspring is green and buried

at the bottom of the grass that rises above your statue

In a moment centuries from now

the single tank that houses two fish

the bells that worms wear on their tails for birds

the primal cycle

will tire of philosophy and decay into an endless shoreline

Reviews

[Emily B]

it took too long to get here, well worth the wait though