Tonight we are tuning the watchtower’s staircase
to a certain song of the sparrow…
a beacon fire inside its gullet…
its nest a heliotrope of musk. Don’t
be afraid.
Unthread the horrid whoosh of panic…
behind you, a dusky light-box swings
from the deer’s neck; his hooves
are static flickering.
Our cloaked maneuvers are long. We are
wearing our ropes. It is cold.
Think of Gretie’s garden. How one bucket
swung towards disintegration;
how champagne poured from the birch tree
& it tasted like the stars.
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2 comments:
everything that you've written is faboolous lauren. and i'm terribly jealous. i await each and every post that you make.
Yeah, I love this, the end.
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