m mactavish's writings

Pardon these golden sparks

that leap and twirl and flit.

A strange and ghost-like whirlwind

has caught me in the midst of a new fervency,

And I dare not ask you

"Come to the core of the thunderbolt."

And I could not read aloud your palm

"A honey chior, comb, and blossom."

and when I get too close

I am turned away to my own palm

what an experience, this torrent of puberty these children, drilled and dressed as gemini an appology. set free the ghost. and the carnival hair is cut and a face alone is a mask.