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The Lark Ascending
Thread of rasping honey pulled sunward
athroat from Earth's war-baked coal,
the ashes of man's gun roar.
In this bliss our tannin soul
melts into church soaked sunrays...
an angel's hair... the sugar spun glass
of anxious summer grass
fried to hay by a violent Medusa's gasp.
Upwards we are pushed
beyond the limits of dust, and crush,
the stink of rust.
The atoms of our bodies made ethereal
in instant flash, to smithereen notes,
the pepper of heaven.
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