A dead cork moon erases, shams The swift subscription pediments of light--- Blanche magician's hand before a card, Eternal current voyager of sight, Endlessly inscribed. You, who section out the broken Window's fragmentary glaze In gold, auroraborealis ruins that shake The scattered genet weedlings here of late, Untranslatable deathcard of all hate, Who full-sail mocks the sun, know I come to dance beneath your fake Hepatitis curve of being, welcome skater Who deals with a slick grace the last Mother-admonishment to poker hands. Lilies launder moonlight in the lot. A moving silhouette will break their dust: Imagination is its own remorse Recalling ancient beauties, one by one, until The reinvented dead ladies emerge From the trapped torrents of a late laboring mind And coo and call and sveltly wend their way To demand in time imagination's final lie: Its death; at last, to make One monumental animate corpse of fate.
Moon-Chant
The Cabana at the Equator
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Aug 262011