Sestina
by Khara Rosebrook
Sometimes by dream
logic you are owed to me. Holocene
prison furnished by sea spray
and glass. I take root
in the sweetsand. In a vacuum,
I become my songcraft.
I didn’t mean to craft
excuses for need. Dream
bug in the margins, holocene
centuries spent sipping the spray,
praying the root
of the love into a vacuum.
See: a cosmos in the vacuum.
The black is no varnish, no craft;
this living is another dream.
Amidst the sticky holocene
I do my best to spray
freshwater at the root.
Tangled in root
worms, my mouth a vacuum,
I write you, I write you, craft:
You kiss me in a dream,
a thousand years of holocene
madness oxidize and spray.
At midnight we watch halogen spray
over the heart root.
I listen to the vacuum
drawl of your song and I craft
a whole life. I draw a dream
from its half of the holocene.
In life we are hushed into a holocene
goodness. We swoon at the spray
of God. We relentlessly root,
hugging barbs. Loving is a vacuum
with no capacity for tact or craft,
only dream.
At the foot of a fresh holocene,
my trust is a fire root; my craft
a mighty vacuum; a spray of luck; a possible dream.