WEBSITE OF CLARKE EMERVANE

THE FIRES

from Take Me to Church


Not the frenzy of the wind
drought-scarred, stricken ulcers of land
bluffs of black fatigue.
Tongues that dance preemptively
unseen, unheard
green bosom of wood
conjuring from ash. Ash the
sublimate, the soil of our fertility
resurrect dancing.
The orchid demure,
demure the crucifix labellum
concealed undisguised; the lectern held
at childrens' eyes.
Black the vision of our hell,
wide-eyed desolation.
Can we stoop to Anabelle,
imp of stump's creation?






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