All night you were
talking to moon in dance.
I will catch you
in sleep.

A daughter of
Miranda, ****** in dark,
the tarentula, the choice
of ultimate.

You cover the blood
on knife. Someone has paid
for betrayal. No charity,
no will of god.

Eyes move like
dragonflies. Between her
and him an unborn
sun folds the leg and sleeps.

I become my own lover.

Stitch your eyes
before you see the slit,
in the rock, that brought
an earthquake.

The sensors were
becoming robotic. You cannot
feel touch or smell the
thoughts.

The spider silk
was very strong. It
twists your reasoning without
spilling blood.

Pass on-some salt.
It was too sweet to believe
in the words of a half-soul.

I want to get back
my old pain.

My blockchain locks war out.

By exectutive order,
war is not legal.

War is out lawed, right of conquest is negated,

will ye **** me for knowing war is a reason
liars made up for payback.

---
mundanityrealistic every day regular stuff at

the level of muons appearing in places

we expected muons to be,
we see
as we saw, you see

about .3 sec ago, you know, you are determined

to read this line and wonder did you read
read or the past tence
red
as a flavor is a harmonic device in simplificity

ifity bop.
ifity boo, ifty ever after now, who are you?

Pandemic


Time folds into itself like a
hand wraps around its own
fingers.   Minutes go into
seconds, the reverse of
times own practicality.

I waver between the worlds
of sleep and starking
wakefulness.  I move
during the disconnections
of place and action.

I will arrive, as Eliot said,
at a place of beginning.
Not to recognize my
neighbor is a conclusion
forgone as the inversion
of time depletes me.

This is sacred time
ordained by nature.
I thrive or succumb
and in the end I will
be very different.

I morph as the virus
spreads nature.
That time will end for
me is its only goal.

The pandemic is
unbleached.  I
sacrifice myself
to the gods of
unknowing.

Caroline Shank


Prompt:. Covid-19

Again a forest
walks, wounded and broke.
I sculpt a poem.

To get some relief
of truth, give me a vedic
hymn, Beethoven script.

The spring waits in
the buds of chest. When love
sprouts, look at the moon.

A ****** kiss
of Karma, turns the page.
Acid-burned, my hand
hold the pen.

And I think of
the beautiful orchids trying to
find a home.

last night the wolves came.

there are plum bruises across the sky
and mountains burnt white with faded sun and there’s a path seared sharp into the pines that brightens as the sky dims.

there’s a nameless man beneath the gallows
squatting like a carrion-bird at a ****. a
smile splits his face like a wound
there’s blood like spilled wine, great grinning
pools of it, and the snows are thirsty to drink

and there’s a woman with a story like a knife
and nothing to lose, and she sharpens her words and follows the fraying path into the woods.

the wolves come.

they always do.