Subliminal black repressed

from the gaslit dusk; I am

affluent in fireflies and

humid crossness,

 

stars—flounced like

bouncy pins of light

nuanced from a

subjective grit

of teeth

 

the world is benign.

its impermanence begs

you should listen—

but why?

I have no king.

There is no throne

calculable and

at fault for

my flawed angel-spread

in the tall grass, where

mosquitos feast

on old blood

 

my inertia is palpable;

an unearthly clay

of cloying quiet

and deathless

thought-shift

 

feel it. press it.

position it

and leave it

out to dry. high

atop the trees, where

the moon’s

milk light finds

exit only in

the wet gloss

of my pupil’s

inhale,

where the subliminal

black, and I, tire of

the sublime