Friday, January 20, 2017

Robert Verdon, #425, [untitled]

long clock-hands of shadow ***** reach across the sea and into the barred forest
night spreads over a deep wet sponge ***** under rare stamps of stars
the sea is gouged out of ebony for us ***** foaming like a horse’s flank
steaming blood disfigures the sand dunes ***** the killer escapes for good
we never say a word to this day ***** beyond the usual hagiographic claptrap
yet another drone sent by a saintly leader ***** about to be replaced by a lunatic


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