45*21

not so brilliant are the lights
that we confer with
on open roads
when society seems to crumble
at the edges
by juvenile nightmares
but there is the same riotousness
it happens when
Paris was burning
All roads lead to the summer gardens
wrapped in semiotic cloth
just an ordinary storm
it seems, at first, and then so bright
that even the ghastly wonder
of deepest dreams perspire
a kind of understanding
unfolds
and folds in again
a series of mirrored perplexities
a taste for candy
and prophetic odes
sang in twilight orchard