Solid In Sexdecasylabics

by Keston Sutherland

Beside the open border of the teller station counted on
that scene erupts apart from its reality below in flight
to where you let it float between the wicker gaps in sanity
in grainy resolution on the wall in knots projected fire
will be fanned to decorate in platitudes and sunlit ash
that no erotic suspension of the progressive-slide drawer
ever need produce too much paralysis to shift. The way
that a broken mind or heart adherent to the cavity
you stand in for eternity is always hard to stand or not
still now containing pictures of the faces that still vacate it
every time the static or revolving back is turned for good
to make another person who had loved you go astray.
This is counted on as the multiple of living abstraction
native to the planet and cutaneous as melanin
warped to a meniscus on the dollar, in a dreamy waste
of time to wake up depopulated clutching at genitals
inflated into concrete fate or pegged to balusters of air
as the departure of people you love forever proves to be
perfectible in honest irony and in this is just like
the void that capital erects in every passing breath it takes
for granted like a scalpel to ecstasy buried in marrow
exploding now to cool tomorrow savage in serenity.

Last updated August 11, 2022