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,
dismantled as the motives of pterodactyls,

or chatoyant toadfish
whose gills swirl fluid with ribs.

the drifts, they are a road sign

scattered from a halycon aftermath,

bonemeal from lucullan beasts

bloated and bliss-shredded.

and yet 

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

burning down the horizon.


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12/16/25