Sunday, October 3, 2010

A Word That Makes Thinking Strange

Oxen of the Sun 407

At dusk she is reminded
Onward silently toward her phantoms
Onward to the moaning clouds
She, of high magnitude
Of lesser land
Wasted, trumpeted twilight
Behind the voice of infinite space
Behind the bright mysterious wind
Within the structure of these ghosts
Within the rebellion of heaven
Given over to something growing
To a sign of magnified stars
Onward on this highway toward the lost,
radiant stream of years the
salty flesh veiled in gold the
skies of heaven moving around the sun.

Do you know of the prophecies of lightning?

1 comment:

Richard Ewing said...

I love erasers. I use them on my paintings.
I love X-actos as well.

sinks in.