Tuesday, December 25, 2018

Robin Wyatt Dunn writes

no rest nor word not real nor fake not white or right my own shuffle and embrace beneath the town:  which hound and hate, my own, shakes down the dawn over my face, mysteries and tissues falling in the air;  and the berth of my soul, shuddering, sucking in the space to wheel it all about us, flung: tell me the name and I'll tell you the reason, tell me the reach and I'll give you my hand; not ever once will I reeve the dark for you;  like lightning we will coast over its back the scars and reeds for its shadowed sleep, kings and ships orderly over its majestic wastes, and your eyes near mine:
no rest nor word for you; each moment, and exact, cements the castle and the ways out of your ambition, lordly and solemn, shining: which is it, geared and graceful thing, for our evening?
tell me how to come and I will.
not ever now but soon, sooner than anything, the nearest thing, barely a moment, next to you.
Le Courroux de Poseidon ( oeuvre vendue ) by Anthony Jean - Illustration

Le Courroux de Poseidon [The Wrath of Poseidon] -- Anthony Jean

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