01-01-2025, 12:30 AM
Enid in the Shadow of the Evening Star
The Wolfing Hour — Emily in her Tower
nods over mist as her pages invoke the stars;
our girl from school idles on a bench by the light,
a remnant from the library window but not
of any source that's printed knowledge, nor of ours.
Her realm Postfictional shapes the giddy hour.
Wee liminal, and smoke of shores like black and white
television on fuzz, the honest paperboy,
old and not retired, hasn't seen the ghost now
dozing to the gulls; Emily's incense haze shall
open our Hypnogogic's post3AM eye
to the sol in the hollow of this blight.
Each palm a wrinkled eye from left to right shoulder,
a gust from the lungs warm though the schoolgirl shivers,
steam freezing from her nails dark green, dark red, cotton
candy blue. Her family fire forgotten
for the seasons spent away sparkle on tethers
thin as clouds beneath the attic of Em's Tower.
The Sleeper loses his thoughts in hers, scrying pulse
drumming a colorless funnel sky, warm feeling
of a swirling absence of all but that. Standing
nothing other than that spiralling island ring,
silent alert throbbing from the mute screen peeling
a dripping middle pillar between true and false.
Blind shark hairs pierce the sockets of abdominal
oceans blurring through digestion as the winds that
cave the clouds crumble, and starlight ambles through wet
as the dew on the new girl's feet twirl and glue yet
distant realms one pole, a single line of flight that
gulls now Southwestern Virginia morning birds pull
from loins baptized by dreams, head shaved of consciousness,
shades of drama teachers, pink dusks, unyeared datebooks
clogged by lusts that wail in unison near zero:
as first light claims hope that calls a girl a hero.
Yet consciousness remains like youth in pirates' hooks.
— Holding fast in bloodtorn waters of cautiousness.
Though Confusion assails us, the Tower is pure
rock actual Star to the reader's candle seer.
Wolfgirl fades back to a colorful serial.
A crescentmoon-still asleep, few sirens appeal
to the tall astral and uncorked aurora clear
maze of carnal direction, sure as Lucifer.
The Wolfing Hour — Emily in her Tower
nods over mist as her pages invoke the stars;
our girl from school idles on a bench by the light,
a remnant from the library window but not
of any source that's printed knowledge, nor of ours.
Her realm Postfictional shapes the giddy hour.
Wee liminal, and smoke of shores like black and white
television on fuzz, the honest paperboy,
old and not retired, hasn't seen the ghost now
dozing to the gulls; Emily's incense haze shall
open our Hypnogogic's post3AM eye
to the sol in the hollow of this blight.
Each palm a wrinkled eye from left to right shoulder,
a gust from the lungs warm though the schoolgirl shivers,
steam freezing from her nails dark green, dark red, cotton
candy blue. Her family fire forgotten
for the seasons spent away sparkle on tethers
thin as clouds beneath the attic of Em's Tower.
The Sleeper loses his thoughts in hers, scrying pulse
drumming a colorless funnel sky, warm feeling
of a swirling absence of all but that. Standing
nothing other than that spiralling island ring,
silent alert throbbing from the mute screen peeling
a dripping middle pillar between true and false.
Blind shark hairs pierce the sockets of abdominal
oceans blurring through digestion as the winds that
cave the clouds crumble, and starlight ambles through wet
as the dew on the new girl's feet twirl and glue yet
distant realms one pole, a single line of flight that
gulls now Southwestern Virginia morning birds pull
from loins baptized by dreams, head shaved of consciousness,
shades of drama teachers, pink dusks, unyeared datebooks
clogged by lusts that wail in unison near zero:
as first light claims hope that calls a girl a hero.
Yet consciousness remains like youth in pirates' hooks.
— Holding fast in bloodtorn waters of cautiousness.
Though Confusion assails us, the Tower is pure
rock actual Star to the reader's candle seer.
Wolfgirl fades back to a colorful serial.
A crescentmoon-still asleep, few sirens appeal
to the tall astral and uncorked aurora clear
maze of carnal direction, sure as Lucifer.