A catacomb, criss-crossing like palindromes.
Cyborgs circuiting stopwatches in droves.
Chroma-vested Siamese scurrying to circuses.
A polypropylene cordovan maillot.
Sundown's blood-lyric miscarrying on cephalic
roads. I burrow, salient as symphony.
I cymbal-clove. Grow cynical with concepts
and stoves. Stutter smoke-stones in burnished homes.
In this grove, I schist glistening prisms. Trove coarse stucco;
split crusted cysts. I schism. I styrofoam. The cyan sky
suaves to coal. The light codes a lambent torpedo.
Pressed upon the dome, my vision: furloughed
planetary silhouettes six centuries ago.
Epistles plaster conical coils. Bodacious sailors
consult astrolabes. Royals don embroidered robes.
I systaltic. I alcove. I brittle my bones
with honeycomb. Constellations sieve, like synapses,
with time. I syncopate, softly. I silver this ridge,
conducting. I breathless. I syzygy. I stone.