billyfivecrows

for Emily Dickenson

Thick flight through fierce disorder.
Your spirit was naive hand, a lace
Of illusion. Lock spoke of vaccum,
How nothing binds along the metaphors
Of frailty, litmus of meaning

Is death. (Now the malleable milestones
Morph into monsters of thought. Strange
Moon of absent semen, glowing like
The blood of a candle, your name

Like a bell made of paper...)