I was sky.
Fickle as a smoke ring, cliché as gemstone seas or eyes or jaundice-gold luminescence and I’m sickened with it – puffy cloud-pustules of some undiagnosed plague. Your bad luck cobalt is magnetic because canvases don’t work if the pen passes straight through
And yet, a thousand rhymes, each more hackneyed than the last
You were silver.
Closing yourself away in caves like misted wombs because no matter how jagged you file yourself the precious arsenic sheen never goes away
and then they pronounce you a lost cause
I strangled orthographers in paralysis, choice rumbles and lightning strikes fissuring the pages – God’s an easy mask to don; besides, hymns drone he will forgive me – to rearrange words somehow
render you matchable
just. goddamn. bouquets of curving lines. quill sputum hacked up onto a slab that Moses held aloft.
b-r-e-a-k it all
but blood screams x and y and metal won’t show cracks
so I find solace in high and all its paletted definitions
you glow from photo frames
but never. in.