©Two Is Not The Aurora Borealis Draining The Ocean of Red

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Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

Your heart,
an acorn
in the night sky,
became
surreal…
broken reality
stored by hopeful
lovers
in alabaster jars,
hidden behind
a crest of lips
filigree-etched
on an altar,
possessed
by the gods
and blackened
by their fire.

My alien bones,
in the universe’s
cracked mirror,
lay beached
just beyond
the sea’s foam,
crushed,
multiplied
like so much
scatological
obscenity
collected by
beachcombers
for you—
saved to net—
another
unseen
gamboling
sylph
inked and pinned
into the boxed
collection of
ancients
from the air
to be revealed
in this high-tech
low-battery life;
my fluid
coagulated
like the dust
in my mouth…
a mouth
that once
ranted
my dirge
for freedom.

There is no
universal will,
no will for a
universe
masturbated
from your last
test
-a
-ment:
a hieroglyphic-
painted
conch
standing
the test of time,
left to testify that
the micro-waved
third planet
will be left
disinherited.

 

 

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