Every Strange Meridian

Todd Romanowski

BlazeVOX [books]
Buffalo, New York

Every Strange Meridian by Todd Romanowski Copyright 2010 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. Printed in the United States of America Book design by Geoffrey Gatza First Edition ISBN: 978-1-60964-029-3 Library of Congress Control Number 2010931944 BlazeVOX [books] 303 Bedford Ave Buffalo, NY 14216 Editor@blazevox.org

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Mysterium What was wept, your body, by a cup that gathers norths, where the road was walked, then kind, dim. Seldom in my kingdoms, throughout them, throughout the three pomegranate tears, you are. Once, the swan is no longer a cloud, and I can join you, to glide the wick of palmistry.

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The Marriage Our speaking ghosts, blueberries. We are what our hands drip, clouding ark glow with crowns of us. A spindle shore. We are stigmata to sleep, holes a pond drums when May will be.

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February 2999 My skull, transported by the stealths that enkindle when columns commune, is wax seal where Phobos and Deimos sink. You are welcoming, utter accident on this plain. The canal water covenants with combs eclipsing and you, with your reflection.

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The Monk The ants mandibles are shut. The precipice is shut.

Your bells crescents lead through the adored,

cloister sugars that make identical descent into dismantled mandala. Milk bowls guard. I am not meant. With your lips, sweeten me again.

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The Offering For rams horn embers, I am made into smoke that is tautened from, you seek, what you hold when the city is small, as the world, and a draped scarf. Was I nest? Char encircling me with narrow carings, a musician in hilt.

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The Gifts The box is carved. See how you covet promises tangling mane. Sell, once again, your journey. Before it, too, becomes my tongue. You are near the final narrowing in a bottle on a moons sill, and the grapes night glistens in a night of syllables that awaits your tongue.

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The Diminutive Hotel Touch eyelids: our room. This, late, then consecrating. Sunsets of egrets. These seen. Weve lifting and dipping shipnames. These seen. Weve nectars, quiet only. Desires. Room, this nightroamed star. Fourwalled water falls as avenues dye lilacs, as hours rumor timenight.

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The Last Metempsychotic Night is the hinge with fewer footsteps when he seeks a pawnshop for his guillotine. Summer leaves demand, acquire glittering, and branches return, velvets where his lover fits, steepened by the diamond that refrains from taking him.

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The First Isolation Though fog is a palace large enough for the unseen street to enter, and entire trees lag through when its opalescent panes unsheathe the eyes long sigh, these ghoststhe fog, a rose to touch in its inner garden, and Isharpen namelessly: a blood carried in a birds heart.

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The Giantess The hidden lake, when it concatenates, lights its shrine with shores of lips, and I have held a small mirror level as if a figure anvil hips blooming constellations stood in my palms.

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