Poetry

Black livers? 
Are you really desperate 
after a vision? Miasma 
rising? 
 
A disheveled sky was 
calculating. Tide was turning 
back carrying the 
tremors of shores. 
 
Was that true, you faith 
thinning? I see myself 
getting ready for slanting moon 
eating seeds of death. 
 
It tears through 
the veils of abstract. Are you 
looking back at paralyzed 
sun who has swallowed a stabile?