Rondeau

A stirring stirs the moment thick,
the tension retching, red as brick.
We host the hopeless in our hands
and stop their throats with bitter sands.

So what? The witch’s beard is slick
with spit and hexed arithmetic.
She twitches, thrusts a candlestick
into the angels’ grimy lands
a stirring stirs.

And though our river’s eyes are quick
we can contain them with a click
and fry them as the river stands
in self-defeating awe. Oh! glands
of pleasure, ease the Bolshevik
a stirring stirs.

-r. miller

Advertisements

Ring the Call Button

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s