Dusk: a blade of honey between our shadows, draining.
From Ocean Vuong’s ‘On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous‘.
sun snorts the snorkel ( s o m e r h y m e s )
mist whips the vicar & tryst jams the jangles rip quips the river & flip flops the flow egg kegs the kestrel & leg spans the dangles wing sings the wizard & boat shows the row land licks the sailor & mop moths the candles handstands the baker & feet knead the dough bread bins the tinker & flap cracks the scrambles tank tops the bottle & grass greens the mow spleen spins the weaver & clean sweeps the vandal sea saws the beaver & pin pricks the sew on swans the plodder & song whales the rambles ale froths the fodder & drip drops the toe brick shits the builder & tear snares the brambles quick sands the gilder & cage caves the crow pen inks the portal & sword swish the sandals sun snorts the snorkel & spun spores the glow ...
Awake; like empty waves of trains in the bleary morning rush | the daily commute of metal wheeled coffins; tightly grasped by pall bearers—conductors | engineers who seek the high road to Mecca, America’s Freedom Tower; and points South | the Metro sinks to the depth of the burgeoning skyline; traces ghost lines of antiquity | to hug the rails of a fat dollar bill and a hungry New York Daily News. 238 more words