Milky Eye Of Plato
Color, no longer is fodders, a vision bleak the crow
by James McLain
Commons foggy leather cap, my weather unseasonable refined in progression logistic's leaps past sightless, of eye reproached
Freedoms missing wrists, cannot be unshackled, falsettos
etching denouncements, is a block of souls ringed of crimes.
Passion without cries in Christ, penurious of mind, drafts paper
is Communion at law, like snow flakes drift to melt, formless.
I speak not of Rome, grand nude, devoid in breath, full pompitous
leaned mouths of marbles, chipped lip to cup last David dropp.
Jettison hope, sitting mountain casting clouds of doubt, shedding
warmth restricting flow bloods river slows hidding eye of milk
to lose a branch, fig less hand in hemlock is just one last word.