Poem: Drifts

Dust swept off the surface.  A poem's flirt with obscurity stalled.  For a while.


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Drifts

clouds drift in leonine fever,
laced with ennui and tinsel,
doomed to stalk the hauteur 

of a perfect plane.

their scavenge strays hopeless.
as dismantled as the motives of pterodactyls,

or glassy, strewn toadfish
whose gills swirl with fluid ribs.

the drifts

they are a road sign
scattered from a halycon aftermath,
only hints of lurid pagan beasts left.
consummated, bliss-fled remnants.

and yet 

the fire grips them just before night,
renewing the swells and vales of their lust,
magenta-fierce-citrus-cherry reds,

ablaze to the horizon.


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