with no thread of flowers to plant your feet on, and into morning air at a hotel room remembering that’s what home felt like.
leaving death of all silhouettes when the new moon born of lured tragedies outstretched to kill itself
the moon is red / shutting / the tympani of the Apollo sun and the white flux of pumice stones / and scriptures in memory of the rabbi’s palaver;
salved with fingernail lines on the egg, her baby. The agitation of her veins makes me ask what images are morose? I tried to be someone else but I ain’t the robin in her nest and I’m not Robin Hood; I grieve, my fingers starve for contact as I see the roots like the snow sewn in martyred hems of the citrus blood-sun bacchanal
a pilgrimed father at the seabed of darkness, his bones touch the skull-fish; the ghost of owl forgets his repetitions
The worst sentence challenge will last for three weeks starting July 24th—August 15th ending at midnight (August 16th) EST time. Keep in mind, I will not accept any entries under this prompt if submitted after the challenge officially ends.
Stood softly forever still.
In our face like waves, receded with flickers
That are evasive in our bones with ferity
Void of discovering dreaming, these fluencies
In evocative tremors, prospering the pigweeds
In the fallen dusk arcs upon the belts of snow,
Appearing to crawl, swaddled within a darkroom
In the depths of your mind
As the quarry impels us in silence
In the blue sanctuary
The side of steel, twofold
With a rise in the sky by the masts,
And our minds, wormed with
Ice, and fragments of speech,
For darkness was ceaseless