(In Stanza Festival, I cannot focus, because all I can think upon is the hidden symbology of letters.)
D
Aim to the slumbering
minutes, where the skein
of time wraps space
like a blanket. Too
laboured the spring
to a hidden
ballast, focus, if
you seek, on this.
S
Whatever happened, borrow
a morsel of spirit, pour
it upon a tapestry of hills
like a dram of paint
(the voice of one crying.)
Awaiting the gabled oceans,
the picturesque void, raw
pigments, we sky the
parchment of a cosmic sorrow.
M
How little we knew: here,
it stopped. Did we need a view
to hold it, tear it up between
our hands, somewhere beside
the breeze-spidered hills? I
wish we had borne mute, not
stared onto an ocean’s web
of noise: but, somewhere,
hidden beneath the fake tulips,
here was a balm, a voice,
someone twisting branches
cameline to scoop a silence
like a plate of prayer
to garnish a ship’s journey
(a soul’s) in this revolving barque.
T
Electrons swaddle the opening
of a young sea,
emptying, dopening
in spinning hymnody.
I was all above
beholding this sprawling shower,
the murmur of a dove,
the lymnergy of hours.
A
Oxen-graze the page
field. Incipio to a
swarming prayer. Sprung
tithe, waste land Eden.
D
Question for the slapped
dawn in swimmings: is
it for to lion me in the floating
grimoire of aeons?
Squidditas 