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Trance to a Season
He closes his eyes as usual. That starts it.
Gallon blackness against thin skin but split,
Suffused with a million rushed and serene
Shades of purple and sickly, retinal green.
Squares and curves, utterly vertical rounds
Imprinted obsidian spheres, half-sounds.
A vague intimation of abyssal, milk white:
Horizontal paradigms on the coast of sight.
Yes, indeed the whiteness on the horizon
Flutters scop-musical like a lark’s blazon.
How it snatches up the blackness, losing
Clarity of its edge like madmen’s choosing.
It ceases growing yet consumes all within
The poor man’s eyes, traversing the din.
A pure, blank line that is born in the mind
Fills the soul nacreous, leaves him behind.
Goes it beyond him and stretches open.
Straight wide. Too wide. Much too wide!
The teeth he hadn’t noticed crush him dog-brightly
And pull him fast inside.
He opens his eyes as usual. That ends it.
© Cody Edwards 2010
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