The Foxy Neutrino
The psychology of the sun is strange...
The violinist's taupe
strapped sandals, color of beach
sand, burning, slap tiles
with embedded grime, like
the charred plaster walls of a Syrerian
merchant. Anytime...a fear:
bombs dropped, scarring
an isolated biped life.
Morning edges spill
light the tint of egg-
whites commixed with the yolk, brewing
the dream that souses
the intangable
permeation of the air;
imbued rose colors
of birth; or a prom's
carnation, white tinted blue
like the cottony sky
draped over the fringes
of liminal lives cast onto
the arcane stage
of a paralyzed
mortality. A need
of warmth for the flower,
the snug petals that breach
an infernal cut into
the animus in life.
A stygian gash
insufferable like a pompei
brain cooked into glass,
a fossil the tinct
of diabolical eyes. An
appollyn rises
to seize the sun's foxy
neutrino, more easily
snared than bombs.
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