Florilegium Archive · Papercuts and Scribbles

April 2021 – Dearly

Little dust messenger
(the xylophone of spine)
how rusted shut I am,
therefore I praise vacancy.

Let there be plot
in the high palace of words
with their minds full of nothing but flame--
setting marshmallows on fire on purpose.

Our feastfires have faded to candles
in winter snow, after a funeral.

When the gods frown
peach clouds fade to slate,
feet have their own agendas;
the best ones grow in shadow.

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