it’s too hot
for september
and i’m
too preoccupied
gold letters
stretched across
silver sheets

flesh cries out for flesh
and
this machine haunts me
like broken sandals
anticipating sullen magic

spent on cheap wine
i’m waiting for
some new
and persuasive
revelation
to claim me

like stone trees
stamped on a city beat
or an octopus of objectivity
entangled with the resistance of love

mad personalities
of youth clutch
trumpets that sing
for one more victory
as the animation of
automation
brings us closer to god

it takes effort
this occupation
of obscurity
and the orchestra of
minute infinity
betrays the novelty of
divine intervention
as we once again
approach
a season of
marbled fantasy