SPHERICAL
there is dying on a vine a
little moment away from here and life
feels dormant like an
immanent kiss of a treble clef
clawing up and around the
body in a shadow myrrored
hall of triumphant mayfair,
this kiss in between;
the ritual sunset of all
towards and arches smell like desert scape
in the angles where only
curves meet, this tinkling
of my backwards thoughts and
latticework underneath, a dry
supernova of forest wash
buries all over a cloak
which I'm told is mine, as he
looks down in cyclops
and all else drowns, high
beneath waterways of
dandelion pews, he'll come to
take you away in sonic
boom and rapture,
you knew you were only play.
Nicolee Ferris
Tuesday, August
29, 2000
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