Each year I hold her ancient body in my arms as if she were a little child again. I tell her not to listen to the sound the river makes behind the clouds and fog. We’ll pretend it’s only the sun the hills have hidden, not the words we can no longer read. We’ll pretendContinue reading “Pavane pour une infante défunte”
Initiated, The haiku is like an egg, Inseminated.
Because the rain speaks. Of roots, names, wet flowers. That we are underlings.
We are not brothers. We are not friends. How can we be anything while Lucifer is with us? He is elusive now as ever, sure, his cosmic mind…it seems wholesome. But the coherencies that form his intellect are neither part of his mind nor part of his brain. —O, Phoebus heightened! Our companion. We liveContinue reading “Pirouette”