Short on time to-day, but I wrote this sonnet while eating my oatmeal;
Blood for Earth
Gave me your heart in a ticking parcel
Hoped I would take it inland and bury
It deep in a sour sump or rancid well
My inland empire where soil spriggans lie
Laughing like songs slurred on sun melted tape
Black acid dirt holding red pump with waste
And you could be cool as the slow escape
Of the moon to the stars in ink cold space
Or the muffled flight of whale bodies in
Heavy pushed dark blue bottom depth waters
But your dear flesh must scrape yet on earth when
You drift for dreams your hot heart still gathers
Your supposed naturally cool state
Is pointe pose on a roiling magma plate
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