by Susan S. Keiser
A sharp eye hones
and paints the outlines
of a world invisible to ours,
cutting at the certainty
of paranoid dimension,
stark gingerbread
scissor-made and snipped
from adjunct dreams.
Idle generations carved
of iterative black and white
drift from fingertips
into a filmy paper land,
people spilling into cities
and the countryside;
men and women, hopes
sliced from dreamlands or
pale, illucid memory,
drifting on a tissue breeze
toward genesis, imperceptible
in its minute savageries,
controversy biting at
a deft and bleeding hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment