the scorpion grass

Amphora Gaze

I ask you to forget me in the wane of noon—
I immediately regret it.
The dusty sills; the empty glasses; the half-stuttered graces.

I look for us in the scorpion grass by the haunted sculpture garden.
Darkness obtrudes our daylight dome,
A singular gesture in your amphora gaze.
All is forgotten.

“… how peaceful it must be sleeping beside the dead, who fertilize your dreams so extravagantly, as they are profligate by nature, and unconcerned with waste.”

— Alistair McCartney / The Disintegrations

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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