Thursday, November 6, 2014

poem || Jeff Harrison

Honey Clasp Gloss

niche others of dollars' glance
does verily rake at dregs
their digs winged cream
their bone-edged vine
yearly painted black, like
Death's old answer:
"We're living bliss?
No, crystals. It's cold."
honey clasp gloss, hold.
will point, box.
ready wonder to begin
it's so living, it's gonna
forward one
one of the season's
cheap books
green-struck of text
bumpy modicums
nothing the tongue
couldn't jot large
marked swells
timberline push of shame
gold stones' guts
papery gold stone

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