The Fright that Hangs in the Eye


It is a vision unwavering when my parlance
overseers convene, blightful and grim,
a congress of capitals, a capitol of sexes,
arrogance, and nativity.

The fright grows rotund and her fibers jag,
the months split by small mauls of small deaths,
footnoted angelic, attributed in passing print,
driven out by frightening, by organized powers
and skulking disarrays.

The fine scopes and blaring tongues maximize
even specks, lives, the word and world,
as the witch settles endless ownerships atop all.


Ray Succre