John Roth
Want The moon’s dim razorblade & the night divides in half Fat, dusk cherry cutting The black juice that weaves not yet licked; no stain Only, there’s longing somethat old puddle of bones, tenements. Like molding spit to spirit, but far less aside hourglass sand to beat of man, until a wind-carved His chest a stone keyhole Still, no water for weeks. open jewel box; a brief rain & the covetous land that
chattering over gray-blue ice like palmed fruit. away at its star-seeded flesh. between fingers, worthy of its sweet removal. where beneath a softening of soul into wax a tiny breath, from pliant. Pour into shape & set in the ageless face valley roars & rips through him. brimming with light. The sky unlocks like a smashed scattering of diamond fills itself, that steals it all back up.
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