SORTILEGE

DEVON BALWIT

 
 

The   universe   tosses  its horns,   each hoof 
clattering comets,  new dimensions.   White- 
rimmed nebulae snort and champ. I am both 
here   and  not  yet.   A flocking   of  stars,  a 
molecular burnish.    A far-flung  door   sucks 
back   curtains.  I   pull   the    corolla  round, 
threading   black   holes    as    light    breaks, 
shushing, on sky shingles. Geometries cavort 
along axes.   What the final form?  Take each 
from me like a cat’s cradle.  Keep it taut,  the 
better to balance on threads. 

 

 
 

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