We construct it from tin and ambergris and clay, ochre, graph paper, a funnel of ghosts, whirlpool in a downspout full of midsummer rain.
It is, for all its freedom and obstinacy, an artifact of human agency in its maverick intricacy, its chaos reflected in earthly circumstance.
Its appetites mirrored by a hungry world like the lights of the casino in the coyote's eye. Old as the odor of almonds in the hills around Solano,
filigreed and chancelled with flavor of blood oranges, fashioned from moonlight, yarn, nacre, cordite, shaped and assembled valve by valve, flange by flange,
and finished with the carnal fire of interstellar dust. We build the human heart and lock it in its chest
1 comment:
What a magnificent poem And this piece of art...wow.
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wv: eched - etched?
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