Sun-born Sunburn

by December 5, 2023 0 comments

On an ivory hunt in the direction of a cold snap
as all seasons burn for a world on its wedding day
in a pot of sun-born dirt from the south — death-hand black —
with shades of magic webs on silvery guitar strings
saved for a pale circle, freed for frets to hold onto
an Eve 6 album out of town & time for a pink salt guitar,
picks stabbed into Honda carpet — apologize they’re really poppy
petals dug into a mansion’s jute rug under a feast table
doing dirt’s work while holding onto smoke between fingers
to burn aspens up to elbows, no questions from the big city
pawnshop concerning carats, someone will fit forever’s definition
& honest promises about how little new history exists in a circle,
diamonds sold to write a love song so those in fresh soil don’t hear
Earth screaming into space during their honest wedding ceremony.

editors note:

Wedded to the grave, we’re about dirt’s work. – mh clay

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