Sketches of a Dead Man Breakfasting with God -- Star Black


Seen from Jersey, seen from Jersey,
the world wintertimes on tiered bleachers.
I contradict a shotgun
and the yellow light writes itself.
The instrumental little pain comes back again.
What breakfast are they having in the non-vocal clouds?
Are there daytimes? Are there harpsichords?
Will the plump lily be a god?
Incommunicably tight, the yellow light
greets the insect season overnight.
My love is a sunburn on a cruise, no longer peeling, no longer
the years: "squid eggs through a microscope"
in the cheap blackness of adieux.

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