BLAST PRESS at gregglory.com

 
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.