ars poetica |
Would she have died? Hidden in the line and largely held into her everlasting reign of dead mountains. Would she be the proud queen of under dug, floundered in her bed of rock? She would be nailed onto wooden cross pillars and growing under green roller blinds. Was she dead, but more than that she was the disconsolate undermining of the moss? And then? Would she scorch with her pin and lodge silver maggots in crystal? The crawling sucking swarm festivities of a digging court. Where she took the horrors of Corylus Avellana and cheering servants. To turn and wallow till the grizzled underlayment. Who would she be? Bitten by toothless shells with fading halves of uncomfortable wheels where chalk and phosphor surprise her holes softly flooding hurting her measures. Would she change the shuffle or leave foam on beams? Would she tremble of all its veering dust and let them open? Did anything move? That she struck life. A mole's way replete gripping towards the light Windows of mold, an earth journey, a sandy corridor Breathing in whisper archways. Lightning and there was crawling in empty flight: she. Her holes blocked and forms hang immoderately refined. She moved and eyes closed. Would she have died? For the sake of waking. 31 lines Note ▼ |