at virtue’s zone (from the castled face of a suicidal negro)
Theorem 4
Now
Synthetic flakes,
Gift-wrapped…
Across hatched fields
Of water,
Occupied
A fear of dreams
To end death.
He sleeps sweetly
In these safe-wings of tosses.
In the colonnade,
All doors suddenly swung open.
The wall bears a glare of ghastly wounds,
In these rooms of age –
An un-forgiven dawn poses for land and
Bites a chunk of the forest.
Yet
In his room
Light never steps outside.
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