ungraciouspastor

Byzantium burns and we, careless, watch the flicker in the other pupil. We learn, we will, and dawn breaks against us.

a subtle rain papers the backyard garden-party snails scare away the afternoon I'll pay three syllables for a neighborly nuisance but it's always Monday silk thread mews and a gossamer pin none too concerned she's half-a-week behind I'll pay for each bruise I was born in purple because it's always Monday

I am no soothsayer; no genius hides in the crenelations of this rib cage. Just a child in an osseous mew mocked by his own hand with nary a song to sing.

I placed you in the wych elm warm though sapped by October winds. I put the ring there, and the taffeta, the words, in your mouth. I took my leave and still you peek from the bough.

My worried hands have fletched countless volleys My handiwork litters the gulf between Here I try my hand again at tracing these embrasures Here I stand ineradicable until I mark something less than petrous

you're a fiction pretending otherwise -- a specious thought: Enochian, might as well be, or some other vernacular both angelic and arcane the mere utterance of your name reduces me to a beggar's cant

let me paint the tableau my mind has made for you: a silken sheet on a modest gravestone a hummingbird flits from blossom to blossom ruddy cheeks at a casual occasion a guarded smile after a rude imposition