Brandon Downing


He was only another dustcloud of the sultry sameness
                        rose out
          after a struggle of hours

The night passed, the morning came
In the afternoon
          That one day was the sun of his life

The books, pamphlets, trinkets,
hair, thin
plays of the union
at the curtain

like a lighted brand
upon surrounding images,
like a dried channel of tears
of herself
such sprawling skeletons
bath at the vexation

texts of
the unconscious colour
O God !

Short black
ghost of

garden of no
breathing structure

HE was down on the plains
and he stood there like vividness
sparkling over her sex
to keep the world alive

But she was inanimate
the room was black and silent
tyrannized with the mask of

                 the brain
          pulses the ghosts
with emptiness
while the snow wishes its wish

the young
kick the water to kill,

It is not done by miracle