Monday, February 1, 2010

myth in:re verse



myth in:re verse

about the ancient hobble plodding
morning stars/routinely plotted
phlegmatic souls slough
dross from gold/brass seraphs
burning oil as censers fume,

the debris of gods moved on/pain,
whatever is vain, floats freely;
birdsong sung on each bough/
as we creep, aurora arraying
the hoardings so easily mislaid/