To dream to fill the golden sheath
of a remembered day....
heavy and massed and blue
as the vapor of opium...
fired in sulphurous mist...
quiescent as a gray seal...
and the emerging sun
spurting up gold
over Sydney, smoke-pale, rising out of the bay....)
But the day is an up-turned cup
and its sun a junk of red iron
guttering in sluggish-green water--
where shall I pour my dream?
w/ aaaeeeffflll, doorofdestinies, penygorig, katerinanimbus, reelc00lgrl, seasonal fruit cake, tora severin, ko fabric, supahcrushh
Curated by Torre Alain and Leif Zhang
Poem by Lola Ridge