Friday, September 03, 2004

Slip of the Solstice

Hard: have I let up all my angels;
wound them against their own, disowned, cold steel.
War they gather under wings like dumbbells.
Peaceless, they mither refugees for one meal’s
unwarmth. With them, I queue. No! No grace
said for you. You who has promised freely
a God of intentionality.
You, cry-lover, who has frothed my soul space,
are substitute tensility.
Waverers trespass me.
This is a human race.
I bear sentiment, (save face), misplace responsibility.
Yes, I’ve set ‘em aquiver, these aimless, pay-less, tree-tip

Watch night-eve to unbalance
                                                         trip –

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