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Fred |
Your angels are as hard as silk,
arrayed around the room like marble shadows
skin like vellum, faces a vaseline blur,
an incomprehensible shimmer,
it is hard to think of anything
other than this:
a steadied hand and no hallucinations
anymore.
it is a waste of time
to be afraid of the inglorious destruction,
their cool, vicious embrace,
how everytime you think you're well
you know it's pure hyperbole,
an attractive impossibility.
the reasons as are as apparent and inscrutable
as an ancient, knotted coral reef.
the voices rise in an updraft of flint and cashmere.
Labels: Fred
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