a.
between the staging ground for Opus
stirs a faint blue line as still as highway gold;
and when its course has run with ink, or
I am drunk beneath, or better still—am dead—
the letters, pray, will fall into horizons, and feed on
purple majesties that sit upon my bones.

b.
i am the bedtime that i wish was
beginning and not end—for
sleep in chorus coos a tale, ticking
minutes like a möbius clock;
upon the dawn, and not an hour less
of life has drowned in past; round ciphers
curls the tick for days i thought interred.

c.
i sweared it once: her lashes left
aphrodite for a blushing pygmy rare:
but i’ve a seven-scale fever for adonis
now, and that i’ve known and still I
lust for blushing brides; it makes me wonder, oh
where wanders my affection now.

d.
if this dog were any make of man
i’d think myself a parent destitute of skill:
how can these little creatures, simple, wagging,
be so rough to love, so messy and chaotic?
so dear that all our lives upheave for play?
it makes me grin with pity, as I draft a “thank
you” for my suffered Mom and Dad;
when their lives ended, mine began.