NOMENCLATURE:
MELANCHOLY
Over the top with wanting less, watching twisted
trees bend in a psycho wind, a new moon rising,
with a signature face - some thin sliver in light.
A painting by some medieval DeMarco could never
do this justice : angels on wings, time standing
still, the brush-wind hovering like the breath
of God. On my table-top is a cup and a bottle,
some ashes from an old tray of smoke. The
crushed pack of French cigarettes is almost
off the edge. By degrees myself, I am edging
to darkness - a darkness where things linger,
where memory is scribed with silver markings,
where the engraved fashion of dream has
taken over. My shadow-play has its finish
in the watery mark of time, running in circles
down a a curlicue drain. The nomenclature
is melancholy, and that is its name.
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