The Sweeper

The Sweeper


Dust-smeared bell jars sit
Upon plywood shelves, which I
Had constructed only this week.
Unsanded, unmeasured, and unstable
Are these beams, yet they hold
The weights of unlovable scenes.
Comets of passing time are sealed
Behind the ancient, glass frames.

Shadowy urges prey at sleepless,
Drunk hours. Let us pray for the
Mundane moments to bring us the pleasure
We sought elsewhere. Send me currents
Of scenes I have yet to witness.
Designed desire foreshadows
A life of prodigality.

The brain-rot
Has taken a new form.
The dreadful song,
Released from
A bludgeoned chest, as
Crashing glass shattering
To a sea of hostile grains.
Carried away by the fading
Of a silver-lining, and
Carved with sharpened steel.
Take pleasure in the process.

Maggots delight, making
Feast from flaking flesh. As the
Cold cloaks upon our carcass,
An auspicious agreement,
Leaning against inevitable failure
Will feel the press of a bureaucratic seal.
Jokes drag upon the drape of a jester,

For these shelves, too, will
Crush glass upon concave stone—
Swept, packaged, and returned.
Bottled stars are 86’ed.
But, I know the bartender,
And she owes me a favor.

Referenced In~

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