THE DAY ISN’T LONG ENOUGH NOR IS THE NIGHT

 

The table stands

crippled, 
hands stretch across its surface,
reflecting ever-expectant fingertips,
illuminating
by artificial eyes quivering,
soaked as oceans,
pressured as volcano caps.

The murmurs wail of coming breakdowns,
yesterday-dreams,
but urbane lips and minds
are sewn shut. 

Manumissions reproached
by calvacades of eternities, of propriety and scapes;
and these are walls,
just these are we

of beautiful brick-lay
and thick,
rapacious mortar, shifting;

Morphemic shadows
following them about,
the followers
of Kuzmich's redolence:
some de rigueur lesson for the dying.
            

             count  count  count

             them away,

             surmise and feel

             her transient control.

R. D. Brown lives in Camlache, Ontario but still hasn't found "home." He’s been writing for ten years and has recently finished university. He’s looking for a career in social and political philosophy but for the time being he’s a short order cook/struggling writer.

Dance to Death, Issue III

©2008 Sorrowland Press and all respective artists within.