Highs and Lows
mercury or zinc, servant or throne,
which races or oozes in me?
am i cellar or pinnacle?
do sparks, wind-tossed petals,
whirl from pinwheels of torn sunflowers?
will this maze-ful abacus,
squirmy yet sluggish,
incinerate from beads of burning thought?
of burned-out death?
should i have never
exhumed my krakens?
these short-circuited galaxies,
which ramble in gardens of blossom and rot,
far through marled or astral earth,
only to be pruned--fiercely, hungrily--
left to hang in a breath--
by novas and blackholes?
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