Three degrees of idleness
as in there are no more church bells
continue to shock the muscles
of an impudent and unemployable morning.
No-one dreams a cigarette into one's lips
as in the church bells, no longer opaque,
crackle down the harmonizing of Staples Mill

with pleasure. One creases angles and beams.
One sears regret across this Neptune hide
of the masked and fragile. No puddles in the
black top remind anyone of cars or wind
blown through lips like the curvature
of these nonexistent bells. One
pauses when a mouth opens, waiting

for the soul to drop full like tufted fruit
and hit the pavement with a crinkle
like seeing through cellophane. Someone

notes an equivalency between someone

and the wrinkles that crumble the cathedral.

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http://www.lewislacook.com/




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