écrit par moi.
best read slowly, I find. first iteration.
NOON'S LOOMS
noon's looms
string loose taut bones,
and set fire to the stones
in the street's roofless rooms.
noon's looms
spin nuclear & worn,
and blare their bloated horns
over clear, lazy fumes--
trees are opening the palms of their hands,
with their lines of fate
borne low with the waiting leaves' weight
& drawn on the noon-air's sand.
birds are screaming and surprise themselves
with their leaps & caresses & fights;
their wings are still much too bright
and the winds are collapsing shelves.
men in the road are all clear as glass,
worn through & see-through, with wine in their lungs.
their bloated arms are rusting guns
and the dreams that they dream are gas.
noon's looms
tidy up their strings & their lamps,
and the routes on their clerical, spherical maps
curve off... tomorrow to a fierce, dull bloom.
KS
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