from this purgatory of an evening
moon-crossed and shrouded,
what festers in a dewy dark
vesper of nightshade:
the smell of the Otherworld
(the which we
friar’s black,
birds fly through
endless waves of dark sky,
abiding their ancient bloodoath
while
the white-teeth of clouds drift in
fragments of old dreams
(meant to be forgotten)
and you – whom I could never forget –
cross over the night-fields , blown soft
as september’s blossoms,
so lies
the muted elsewhere , (without)(her)
mimicking the throes of some
ruined queen lost in the
thralls of history & the vast empty
spaces supervened by mythologies
soot pollen spreads a grave of radiance
across the meadow
I try to be good,
I am not good
but the guttural mew of a thrush thrown to
the shore of sea’s dark edge
relieves me , however brief
while the
furies fiercly puff themselves
towards the reef
so in the end,
all we have is envy
needled with arrowflight
and the belltoll of loss
forgive it. -smakka–bagms
