the song is a milkweed
desiccate in the wind
mental sorcerer of sun crime
threshold
the banishment speaks
volumes of childlike
poetry
written for prisoners
asleep in their cells
the
watchers being articulate
in blindness
tongues of the talkers
movement
on the fevered plane
where
heat directors freeze
with indecision
freedom liquid in ether
in all that great minds
entertain
or comprehend
for but an instant
illusion
awake then dissolved
revolutionary
tendrils droop
at once in defeat
twice
the resurrection feels
that being lost
is prime
as is said
dread
lives as a baby
giggling
the fields of mourning
the song is a milkweed
desiccate in the wind
