IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
If hours are the shadows of dreams
minutes are empty lovers, waiting in line.
Late am I; late for my time.
The later the bolder a hymn.
I will sing silver nine
long notes the slivering rim
round the world till they slap tapered blind.
Trees impend where wends the rhyming lantern-bearer; he that leans, finally and over
time repaints a night with ballads of his days as banner-holder;
teaked with ale, relates the autumn will, ascance, before him wailing dry.
Some glyph inscribed of his bright mind,
a quick and stilling scream;
what skittering, sepulchered, winds
through that disnumbered dream!
When thinking how a scarab sits
inside a deadened pyramid
there is no solving the imprint
while livid index is.
As heaven dipped and woven flew
aloud and angry, clapping clouds;
as heated leaves and scouring brows
of wind licked up last dew;
Here sits the silent canon-bearer
threading his unseemly myths;
he�s poaching Xanadu.
I sat silent, wintry vespers
rolling under breath.
To think that of all sudden tempers
nature�s thought was death!
Somehow starlight, nearly
graceless, bends and is
as startled of itself
next (3) Main
Inexplicable is pending
copyright (c) 2006 Nathan Coppedge