Philip Byron Oakes

Getting Over It

The time lapsed sacrosanction of gilded lilies.
A stymied classic in the sense horses share
with strangers to the history of death.
Crucibles iced over with assurances,
correcting the course of migrants into the
heartland of mixed emotions. The prickly
foliage of overgrowth in the margins
accorded elbows. The earth as sworn to secrecy,
in timelines of the meter reader's will to dream
the ground beneath his feet coming home.


An altruistic verve of runners up
in the arms of a phantom lover. Echoes
on a leash. Diatribes as mumbled
in a French of the sewers,
emanating through manholes as
an answer from the subterranean
to light. Buxom winnowings to
macaroni fattened for the
slaughter in the gray. The moon
squatting on palm fronds. A hayride
into the city's secrets of insouciance
beneath alabaster bones. Stigmas
as jewelry. Valentines buried
in the rumbling girth of the
catacombs of an appetite for life,
pawning tender for food of the
sort when least you expect it to

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