by phil davison
The summer holds appled cogs.
Juicing and spitting their mulled pours.
And sagging to a ballooned skin-pulp.
I hatch the wet rainbow blankets to flock to lemon ponds,
and party with dead packets and soot caked spine-feathers.
My ghosted ash pillows paint flakes
To die on citrus eggs, specked with wax eyes
that secure the waters phlegm.
That with wind, take mineral fuel to mushroom thrones.
And clamp them firm.
Made king by cherry and sugar-spice,
made arrogant and decedent by their rough nature.
The cogs are still my king.