- Laurence Weisberg
At the zenith of the sundial
the ghost's eye appears
Its bones of sight written across the tomb of the Mongol-light-generator
The fires of washed opals capsize in your ear
as a clothespin of absinth shuts your eyes
The subway rails of black bees begins to sing
as your voice wanders through aberrant zones of exigesis
and the thundering of unknown words
Faces of dead kings vomit over rain forests ravaged by alphabets once hung
from baobabs of pure silver
There you have the Japanese lantern of lost identities
Synapse of conquistadors falling through the last vestige of clerical arteries
as they raise their slippers of mucilage to the gauntlet of mauve insects
who play the bagpipes of sorrows at the edge of the pond
The flag of gothic kisses is raised
and it relives its dream
the wedding of marsupial lesbians
whose beehives of amethyst let me dream at night
so that we might appear surpreised
