At my center churns a multitude
One metaphor for Absolute
An leaves a perpetual autumn
Coreless
And my stroke brain argues the value
Of pain.
Too true contradictions dyaded
To sooth
⨀
Tyrannical gratitude in God’s
Accidental afternoon burns,
Wavers over southern pariahs,
Accrues.
My mother bore some blue nebulae
One mere
Genetic rough draft of a Buddha
((Three suns))