The Moon, Cruel as Always

For J.



O’ jaded Jesu, resurrecting high on the horizon—
wrapped jacinthe in my periphery… I adore how
you evade the smoke lassos of my jacent
stupors; how you ignore the junkie behind my
walmed whimsy—
a twitching arm hanging heavy over
the starless side of night.  

O’ vainglorious vesper, creeping like glowing
worms in the wilting flower crown atop my head;
your semi-taciturn vaporiform winding through
my dark curls like the vasy ornaments of a
maggoty multitude—
pallid pinks, and rusted reds drooping
down on the brows.

This poem is about: 


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