Tabula MundusWords pour down on the plain.A scree of sonnet bouldersraked with pentameter and fluid dynamics.Bricks for Babylon these words.Each an iridescent scripture jeweltended (perhaps)by an austere abbot of necessity.Shaped hadrons or centerless aggregates?It is for you to decide - whether the world has a voice,or is just some hen with pebbles in her gizzard.Whatever you think,the words will still rain down. Guttering endlesslylike hail in a creek ditchforming sentences by accidentchanting reluctant sentiencefrom thickets of memory.They will keep comingthese wordsinexorable as lichen spreading its marriage
Humpback Mountainshucks of mist hunchbacka cloak of reek and feathersextractions hid the nakedmassif andthe sap thatdrips green-rubiousfrom the soaring earth
BeaconsScintilating elfin beingsdescend to laughwith usinconflagrations of the inevitable swells of phosphor hysterical media rapture chatteringsthatslosh like bathwater during an earthquakeglobal is no matternor the bombs we chest thump test againstthem – no matterfor they just collect mysteries like birdslining nests with tin foiland all our progress is as nothing compared the uniquenessour teachers have illumined roads in the nightlike beacons in a sea of stars
a flowering of daysAll these days like curling pagescars exhausting in a tunnelcrowding ripples against a ragged shore.Will they flower some frost morning?Lucent irises of eyes that ungulate cyan in the firefly darknessanother bag of quicklime in the slack.
Sta.sh
