Verses from Invertal

The world Invertal is barren

A civilization of once-was

Everyone remaining is a stranger

Everyone remaining is an artist

Zaccharine is a poet.

The Westmost Shore

this liquid crystal reflects the infinite

so hyptonic, kaleidoscopic, it's swaying rainbow

of colors we could not name, we could not see

like visual sounds for only the dog’s ears,

the ocean holds audible colors

for the armored slugs within it

We dream of wading in, perhaps

feeling the chromatic orchestra

where the eyes could not

but the prismatic flow cuts the body

dear forbid it enters the lungs

Beauty incomplete to our eyes

Is not lost on us, is still beautiful

To cherish its untouchable light

The world’s full name is not needed

Just one wonderful photo

from an album lost in fire

cherished, but

not worth dying to retrieve

The Red and Orange Hills

Red and Orange hills are what they offer

Warm ground and idle wind

Cutting through this grass

Tumbling the flower’s cap

Into the engorged puddle

Of water it once drank

This Verdigris...

Painting crude, Dry brush, yes

Suitable growth for copper dirt

Pock-marked with these ponds

Artistic in it’s erosion

Things here still thrive

Things once were animals

That remain in the brush

They remain timid

Twisting and ticking, clicking,

The sick yet flourishing denizens

Sharing a start at a stranger's noise

New visitors break away rubble

violent footfalls from the inexperienced

They breathe in new sunset dust

Crimson clouds of rust

That masquerades as dirt


Coughing, me,

You, I wonder

Do we share these lungs