B. Sven Telander

# 20

A cold volcano holds muse to bludgeon with a touch,
magma of sorrow quickens to lava tears streaming
toward ancient silver city with icons in the clutch,
for any willing victims who waken to the dreaming:
hatchlings of the helix, molting of persona-
schism balloons, and fragmentations grow;
drunks running under bullets aimed at the corona
cracks the blackest egg, stains the yolk of shadow;
hefting kind scythe to harvest from dead field

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