In acquisition beyond comprehension,
as many in the century and counting,
it was an age bred in complications
so tortuous in the intricacy of
their interfaces and integuments,
their low scandalous scenarios
and high arterial slaughters,
that each dislodged segment
became a floe of information
released like blood or fire
that contributed little to
the scatter winds of night,
which continued to concoct
from absconded seconds
a history buried in tombs
of satin, or rust, of words
never spoken or written,
of gray public statues
elephantine in the rain,
a labyrinth for tourists
with fey carvings and
were apparitions rising
up from the slanted walls
in the sedentary garden,
a sere geometry of rows
cut by winding paths
and marble benches
in the angular sun,
across your balcony
and into your room
a light that illuminates
the rubric watermark,
the burning butterflies
and snapping lizards,
in the woven texture
of the life you lead.
Fromy collection Surrealities
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