La Primavera

The burgeoning elastic of my crime
hedging inconsequence. Renewal
defenestrates the old ties, a letter
to the man from holiness, sutures
on a darkened brow. I bought a bunch
in whimsical denial of the sluice
and psyche holographed in tears.
The arc of a shot vessel
curling slowly into blood
and rebirthed reminiscence;
spoon me sugar on the trolley
while we wait, modus vivendi,
tossing fagends on the map of
meanwhile, magnetical surfaces
shivering like telegraphs.
Every time I spit it out, a ghost
prances in the middle distance.
There are no qualifications for hope
constellations slide in obduracy
plans elide your voice in kindly smoke.

Sarah Law | Mudlark No. 14
Contents | Morte di S. Francesco (particolare)