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