billyfivecrows

Sojourn. Pick a sign. Be dead, be
Done. A scythe to a bell is a dead
Ringer for hell; come one, come all

No room.

I painted my shirt
With the poetry
Of kissing. Red-

Blooded cherubs
Complain in hairy
Flocks. Misery

Is a temperature, nothing

More, frothing liberty

Plainer nudity

Than what the leisure of heat

Can bear.


(The plaza fell upon clouds. The loud
Fountains fell silent. I might define it

As proud, but shocking witch
Is a stately industry, and the poor

Poor ministry

Is history

I plan to break away...)


***