Syzygy
In indiscrete indiscretion in endings
Is setting for closure a little ajar
But hid in the smidge is the edge
Of defining the focus on fewness
And counting to none.
If it's to keep incomplete in pretending
So letting the lower expose from afar
Then wed to the dead is the dread
Of expiring the omens of onus
And drowning the sun.
Whish with a hiss is the kiss
Of description that sits in the mist
Spitting up from the lakebed
That's running as hot as it's night in the sky.
Swish with ellipse is the bliss
Of intention that drifts on the rifts
Splitting up from the lateness
That's stunning as where we don't go when we die.