ReRites (Lucid plexus boiling in the moss) [July 2017]

Death, I Remember as Toy Its columns of love, wading over rocks to coffin the sun. Thought contraptions skiffing hard mirrors. Work that dreams of snow. I became an old man - conscious that I lie in my hear he Lucid plexus boiling in the moss to tell the myth In that light they will be sleeping in the center of the easy pliable line Throstle suffused with flowers imperceptives portentous in their tone And the virtue of beauty Will be shaven around them And no one will speak. And none will move Some gaze less on the misty grave but I am troubled in it and mix with spraypaint shadows My heart in the sun simple expectant threads. Every morning the expiring begins. And the rational soul knelt on spirit who sat on luxury where sand emits pools of light and analog rays of war designed as flirtation