sight bye sin

red over pond, carmine, cardinal
i disappointed the poet, the singer
the rites of spring. saline prisms
and ricochet moods, rosters burning
into rasters, scraped across the tor.
down turning low and special, i
call the number of the only rabbit hole
worth exploring
at this time. decide to pass. maybe some
fullish moon i'll be there again
but right now endeavors seem
too endeavorish. my lids
fold over, sunken petals rid
of light, practicing spring's flight
in a rustle of dessication and dedication
to a heirophants.bring on the initiates
we have yokes to invoke...till she smashes
her role on the toll booths of jersey
and the five minutes are up.