In Dolorosa lane
a sigh and
weep: pom-grenade
and jeweled fruit.
The rising usurped
the heavy golden
air, the mystery
of pom-grenade,
the bleeding holly
and precious fruit.
Lion and unicorn
have furled their
standards, macabre rose,
desolate lily.
Breath
hangs in bouquets,
outwhiting the lilied
dawn.
Cerebral world,
ethered to fables,
the grove a
sanctuary of nursery
rhymes.
In hopeless
house she sleeps
alone, the silhouettes
her comrades into
starry exile.
Undoused
by song nor
night-drunk, the
shy star goes
forth disconsolate.
Lifted
from an avenue
of trees, wind-
blown, uprooted star.
Miles up a
whole species of
bird cries, ancient
chatter above pillaged
land.
Skilled stone
world darks the
ice-grid, unframed
by storm, infirmary
of ivory or
horn.
Scoured rats’
hall, adorned with
snow.
Lichen grips
limbs, shrouded stars
yielding no light:
devils shiver down
wells.
While the
lion and unicorn
grapple for the
crown this riverbed
enmerdes her, Madonna
with irises.
Song,
settled oar, singer
or sleepwalker, benched
among the stars.
She sleeps and
doesn’t care that
tomorrow is a
long way off,
as far away
as a line
of bees dropping
over the horizon.