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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
i once wrote of brains at night in my bed, on a once waterlogged iphone 4

Submitted: February 14, 2014

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Submitted: February 14, 2014



Consecrate spectre cannot shake
the gales between its ferns. They take
from masses of newly sutured pine
the steeple shouts—O ghast! Divine


disassociation from body with sage
and calamus. Peaceful village forage
or better, haunt. Lunes of people
fetter that delicate, personal steeple.


Levitator, glide overhead, and watch
but come not near the holy deadlock latch
of monastic gates—such gates divine
are set rivulets. Fog, sallow your rime


for even an apparition must needs forsake
the undulant particulates of the lake
pooled out from the sallied church. Inside
wet almond, distended in translucent tide.

© Copyright 2018 Benjamin Morgan. All rights reserved.

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