the empty orchestra
an insignificant sound
copper coiling rounds
sky-bound battery
makes little progress
against glass sliding outside

black-mat tar-blanket
liquid bluing makes clean
cut grass
lazy torrents
feed the bay
flotsam paralleling jetty
the water here heavy
and deadly to most forms
especially when it gets in

harpoon-hook proboscis
in lonely winter inhabitants
foisted domestics
relearning the feral root
their truth
a 50-gallon warmth necessity
like life in a sulfur pit
the trees bear no fruit

a sign warns of lingering
as if it’s legally binding
but the asterisk says it’s not
a rebellious nature
shouts discourse
against the implication

black drips upward
reflections pool
in the darkness
where the temple lies
reverence and alms paid
inscriptions in service
to the primal creativity
the deity under the bridge
belongs to

the monks’ road
bifurcates repetitious
and the sacred
is no right answer
like piety and tragedy
should have a laugh over drinks

the all
a purely speculative exercise
to pass away the ensuing hilarity

and in the distance
a fervent dead-man’s-grip sincerity
clutching skeleton fingers chant
the end is nearly here


About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook:
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