The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

the reign

from a distance under azure skies,
azure turns, and you can hear the cries
of monstrous grommets of venom, leaf, and rose,
transforming culture into brickyard prose,
but here the blackness turns against the screen,
and one can only see what one has only seen,
the frame says all, what's inside's disappeared,
and in all likelihood, curtailed what one has feared,
that nothing states its name in noise and hurricane,
or if it does, one leaves, with nothing but the rain.

with Mark Skwarek, Azure Carter

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