Sabbath Gate

Oh Sun, oh Sun, you devil in the sky.

Sugar men erode in their bellies,
and the green hill fills them fresh in their hulls,
mossing up on abandoned harbor,
money traders with cinnamon and rye
in skins wet of sun.
Our workers of bills in the trees
take to green hilt arms, legs, petrify in bark toward the air.

The still, still world enlongates into her entropy
in growth rings helmed on a tubular bulb.
Change doesn't change, so for this melody,
the embellishments will follow an algorithmic tow.

The static nostalgia on the waves
dial on a sentimental instance
from the galactic folds and bends
of perpetual matter clawing to a great rip
through the pages of Times.
The static wilts into pecan
in the same space a peach tree has overriped.
No change. This is something new,
by the convergence of the moment.

World lines flowed down the violin, and the bow blew through the oscillations across several sheep strings,
and if you sat tight, you could hear
the liquefaction of your boring brain
on the canvas of blue Antartic walls in the dreamtime

at the dugout
apart from constitutions of the spheric lives
mimicking in breadth and width
the absolute anecdote of that ogre's yellow eye.
I won't breed in the sparkling canopies,
and I will not die.