Umbriate Press Poetry

Your Face to the Puddling Solange Posnet

I slink to the feet of the
Statuesque: Meaning a semantic parable of
concrete and pitch.

I prostrate yourself,
lay your face to the puddling fire from which
beams the idea of 
my voice.

I remove myself from
the event horizon,
paddle backwards through a 
misty pain and
click my tongue goodbye
like a hurt cricket.

These are not shadows Yvor Prospektus

How deliberate your empty flame pretending to darken hallways of crumbling steps. I stumble, though, and call the dogs to sniff at my reason, owls follow to croon like crows. These are not shadows.