The Kindred Weeping Night

The kindred weeping night,
is where a seraph cast its wings,
and in shadows of the light
a catcher finds the dream.

I fell into the blackness,
I screamed, and screamed, and screamed,
I watched him gather up the sow
and bathe the fetus clean,

he silted it in lemon curd
down by the river’s edge,
I lay there weeping soul to him,
weeping him poems, long washed
in tailored stream, and sunsets
of antimatter and loomed memory
that shunts reality; oft it bled,
is it a pain worth reading;
the rabbit on the mattress
was blue with green furry ears,
the old steady in the cookin’cabin,
he was my friend,
where the savory chicken split the egg
till her eyes were blinded – he'll have no part
of my knuckles and fist again.

As it was spinning,
I woke in a home that gleamed dimly
in the half-light, like rare old ivory;
the air was heavy with rose & jasmine.

The kindred weeping night,
is where a seraph cast its wings,
and in shadows of the light,
a catcher finds the dream.