goatlove

This dream smells like smoke, with
every word a burning coal ember.
Apollo at night in his rage
sweats canvas and film.
The limit sparks high, seeking tangent.
Etched. Perfect moment.
This circle squared crushes full dew drops.
The Sun my only alphabet.

Delinquent and purple,
an uneasy death upon sunset.
Factious, wide arms scoop
delays in anticipation.
The rest recedes at the cut...

And the little torch that it is,
spendthrift and gather and waste.
Homeless light seeking a darkness,
that the world might be its tinder,
worshipped more splendrous than gold,
or pinpricks. But no more than the ear.