# 20 Poem by B. Sven Telander

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
that never met rotation, just an ignorant attempt-
a grasping at meaning, a chimera's vaporous yield;
where tall men drowned in shallow pools prove exempt,
fallen, charming as a wolf with wings
or an empty room full with a world of things.