The ink prison of downtown stars
creates, by simple rapture
a revolution of smoke astronomies,
twisting constellations constant upwards,
past poor Baylor sickboy's windows

And below, a lost night's children
grandstanding, bandstanding
playing tunes on one
and another's skin,
to further self-absorb.

O moon, kiss charred fingers
and in statement,
each wheel of happenstance
will drive us further
a scattered swarm of fleas,
connected only by each new starry issue
of commanding breath
to glow in monotone eternum,
shift position.

08/01/2010

Author's Note: This is something major, I assure you.

Posted on 08/01/2010
Copyright © 2025 Madeline Lamb