This is an improv of "Of the Finished World" by Lucie Brock-Broido. What I did with this poem was pull interesting words and pieces of language from the poem and create something else.
Tenebrous heaven sloughs the tomorrow.
It’s only until the apocrypha explodes and
a thrice plowed asylum of talking trees, cotton,
and rye. It’s laden with antimony.
But do you know what the worst part is?
The fact that an astronomer clenched a
map spilled with bottle-gourds. You vexed
a mob, blanched and winded.
Whatever this is, it’s awry with freighted
hours- ruined, ransacked, but amassed
with forever. Yesterday, I sat on a log
and remembered that you missed me.
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