You Are Gorgons And I'm Coming

 

derelicts darken everywhere, costumed Medusa,
volcanoes that were death for hillsides to imagine
the sun flutters in your curled paws

- a crash of craft -

a paragraph halved at the hinges, with a scootch of art
nations cough out a drizzle of the nearly-human
their thrones freckled with Calibans

- shy as a riddle -

their lips bend childhood down a lichened course
weightless as rot, puzzling as a parchment blip
and as anachronistic, plus "and as"

- a moon-stiff stain -

enough of this silk compass talk, thank-voiced mutts!

 

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