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A silver wind breathes low,
beyond the poison trees,
where tortured spectres flow
into the metal seas.
Medusa holds the glass
at edge of chasm black.
As statuary still,
reflections flicker back.
Reach to the end of night,
float over strange plateaus,
Where syllables of poetry
cascade like dominoes.
a walk from wind to wind
reaches the end and keeps going
circular as the idea of horizon
balancing starlight on narrow edge
and there is a sound of jangling atmospheres
ringing with the swift ghosts of fires
countenance of petal white
eyes for holes and holes for eyes
vivid blindness clearest sight
carried by decaying flight
the glide to ground
and then the sound
is sharp not round
is tightly wound
with shrieking pitch
the running stitch
leaves no loose threads untangled
words spoken never arrive
but are suspended
by the letters of a frozen alphabet
meaningless as forgotten constellations
The swallower of many suns
is hiding in the forest.
Eyes as bright as diamonds,
and dark as helleborus...
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