← v11n1, Spring 2012
Poetry · Volume 11, Number 1

Out of Pain

Black cloud’s corona is so bright

  I keep on reading crown

    instead of cloud, ignoring:

cloud made of crown, of

  inward darkness,

    latent voltage

       suspended drops,

secreted condensation.

My dry semantics don’t grab cloud;

it goes on gushing hot corona flame,

ignoring the black yeast

it’s kneading;

                      blinding me,

cries: Read this.