Thomas Lowe Taylor -- WE SCAR WHAT BRISTLES TERMINAL TO LIGHT

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Metallic skin of the latered soul departs not too soon
nor given against attitude triumphs on the loom

She rests her calm pony, she bends light air around me;
her spirit's torrents wash me clean from the horking gloom.

Eye to the sentient being here in the body's clamor and song,
the larger skin details more suggestions than what's along

This armor of doubt placed beyond time or hurry
blatant record of humming destiny in these layers of light.

Nor cross some gluted psalm anchored as it were
herein not plenty to the gloss of internal time schemes

Not seen. A clue in exceptional perfection once in awhile
the moon a single circle in its particular distance

But seen from what's said, normal discourse presents
not humanity but its wave form moving through you

Salve tibi in the room's western term thus lights
the firm internal bloom which loads the skaters laps

Yarin's noodle held to stay less affirmed than not
yet called impertinent from lines tuned too hot.

Stay, listen to dudes hereafter the swollen afortimento
of her heart's desire rotation of blue noons less habitat

In the appointed room no snares or flutes declare
rebirth a latent scheme afforded higher skin to date

And rustle from what's further shined intent or flatter
loop what'd blue'd oranges from the tone dead tuner

Then scatter, then lean the forded loom, or skip the
heart and flutter into other places none too soon