The spent-fortune of the few who loved,
a catechism of archaic thigh & position:
Drinking from their breasts the rich glow of origin
in forbearance—once abundant along the shores
of Eden & Sumer, the cornucopic-riverings, the new
Apothecary drip, amidst the red moon & purple
Aurelius of northern night where constellations
are interrupted momentarily for a silver arrow:
Like the vein where star-filled oil is struck,
and the zodiacal homes are replaced by mansions
The gods aloft in bell towers of Stardust
with Ziggy & Sinatra ringing back & forth.
Ejaculatory universes, the flooded past tense,
intentions always better than what graced
the aftermath. The glass-doll minuet
touch my aching hole, filling a vicissitude
long procured by descendant
Ghosts of Christmas past and present.
While shadows escape out backdoors across this
great US of A, my weather-beaten country,
divided to reunite again under a mistress awning
championing for change and sided in saga
punctuated by a moan,
a door slamming.
s./j. goldner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/purple-dusk-of-twilight-time/
