rhyme

Engines/Insectarium

Dry laughter of night trains-
beneath scoliotic spines of galaxies
and moonlight rib bone stark around the boiler-
nips the ghosts of idle machines. The chains
holding cold engines have no weakness.
In neat cryogenic sleep, dreaming of breath,
their tidiness evokes emptiness;
emptiness imitates death.

Advertisements

Still, They Knew Him from the Flock

Inside the beacon, someone
found the blue eyed lamb hung;
throat frilled as gunnysack,
sea-cold,
in the first field of the coming sun.

Atlas and Axis disengaged;
both strung and trapper.
Music of death-rattle.
Selena’s tracks between used
rubbers, and chocolate wrappers.

How many nights before death,
caught in mooring rope,
the stars washed in so low
a tall man might knock his head;
the moon stooped enough to hang his coat.