Ballad

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In a realm of plastic fable,
and reversal of lore,
the hooded naif, after years
of stalking the shadow of the beast,
has him within arm’s length,
preparing to reach in
and retrieve the swallowed moon,
the bones of a ballad
by which curses are made
and broken.
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Ashprint

Out of the ashes
arose
nothing
recognizable.
Embers, in memory,
projected a blank sheaf
of light
to cover the loss.
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Canticle

The stars indelibly printed
on obsidian reams of sky,
a course in illuminated text
by which we redeem
the necessary canticle
to cite a gilded theme.
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Grapple

To constantly grapple with the past
feels like strangling a mannequin,
your hands sacrificed
to false intimacy
and the empty reaping
of love’s labor
by unreal standards.
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Citrus

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Upon a citrus-infused sky,
bright and sorry,
the dance of acidic vapors and
serpentine ravels, assuming
the burden of a faceless woman,
basking
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Touch

It is the quiet history of touch,
tendered through years of symmetry
and fable,
a radiant pulsing
in the spaces between fingers,
holy derived, charging us to mercy
and enclosure.
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Golem

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Excerpt from Nocturne Variations:
I think, the bottom line, Piers, is that one’s protector is or can become one’s destroyer. Angels are monsters in wait, same as monsters are angels awaiting transformative context. The two are one and to divide them is to breach the laws of wholeness, it is a violation of the Divine. Yet everywhere you will encounter people trying to destroy “golems” outside themselves, externalizing what is truly an internal matter, and assigning others the role of golem and naming them as such, even when the naming comes without words. How often do we judge, condemn, persecute and implicate without uttering a syllable?
The golem too is wordless, and yet it harbors the seeds of a secret vocabulary, the grammar of ruin and rebirth—It represents the process of becoming, and so I think the important question to ask: From who or what will its lighted directive come?

 

 

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What Remains?

If I were to go tomorrow,
and by go I mean no more
spells of wonder, or lines leveling
a manic fate, no more ancient fireflies
like safety pins fastening us
to thin, thin dreams, all our hollow
and chaste spires, a design for
living on the moon, for music
strong as it is high
to fall and fade;
if I were to go
in that way,
which parts of me
would you still find wanting,
what lightness
would bear the lasting remains?

 

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Riversong

Show us where it is you’re dying,
the silent ebb
and roaring tides of dark,
expose to us, with a scalpel’s exactitude,
the finite lineage of your deepest wounds
and locks, and we promise
that the light’s searing of naked
is the same as the river’s raising
to gospel.

 

 

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Thursday’s Child

Wrapped snugly
in a blanket of godlight,
Thursday’s child
indwells the symmetry
of tigers burning bright
to leave tracks
on empty.

 

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