the geology of disillusionment


the star shine 
still crushes me

in the dying light of June,  
hungry shadows of discontent
invaded our weary hearts

strips of light, 
clouds rushing by 
the stark moon

I was very sick then 
and knew what would 
never be touched 

and the pale face 
slipped into the pale hands 

it was raining 

I remember 
the last moments 
when we kissed 

it was

so slow and precise: 
the careful brushing of ancient dirt 
off of an emerging fossil


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Holding The Bruised Rose Blossoms Of An Attempted Genetic Rinse

Juggernaut Of Yearning

Metaphysical Magic

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