9.10.18

The awakening weakens
prospects, prophets,
and a singing persists
in the background.
Frequently, I falter.
Alter moon’s course
with a deft wrist flick.
Something sickening here,
something mauve and maudlin,
accosts me and demands
I announce my presence.
Not a lot to go on.
Iridescence of the room
crashes ass-first against
my gaze before blazing on
to the next finite space.
In case of emergency,
break down.

-r. miller

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