Michael Borth

The Acacia In The Burnt Grass

A symbol detonates to become a new precipitation
invited by the drug stasis of a new kind of technician
wherein a caldera builds a cathedral of smoke
and the hexagonal universe of troubling memory cell.
The negligent sirens are coming.
Beyond the faded marquee and the assault
of incorporated names, the engine of clean vapor
stood to last in the entertainment of murder and war.
A season of deflated money. A narcolepsy of the prince.
A voluptuous return to the even grid of the blinds.
Where joined are the tongue, where perfect
is the abrasion of the tightened hand, the anxiety
of absolutely needing to lessen the anxiety.
And those who benefit, those who fall, those who
awaken to primate violence in the gum arabic.
A restitution of the child’s number one suspicion.
The initial raising of the eyebrow in some livid corridor
where the idea of imprisonment was then aroused.
But no, we are to continue to hone our begging.
A chalice of grey water and a serial incontinence
and the world leaning and drifted and still
a replicate momentum of the acacia in the burnt grass.
A puzzle of level and a tier of blur, not one link
to any definite source, just the phenomena
whistled and pure and summered, uninvited from the call of eaves.