The air smells of rhubarb, occasional Roses, or first birth of blossoms, a fresh, Undulant hurt, so body snaps and curls Like flower. I step through snow as thin as script Watch white stars spin dizzy as drunks, and yearn To sleep beneath a patchwork quilt of rum. I want the slow, sure collapse of language Washed out by alcohol. Lovely Shelley, I have no use for measured, cadenced verse If you won’t read. Icarus-Iike, I’ll fall Against this page of snow, tumble blackly Across vision to drown in the white sea That closes every poem — the white reverse That cancels the blackness of each image. (Blank Sonnet by George Elliot Clarke) #fantasy #renaissance #spring #ethereal #goddess #holy #histo...