Afterclause

Antique pulp with traces of ink
and all the words breathing between
Lay them on my tongue like drops of moonshine
to burn in my throat and make my thoughts drift
to cosmic echelons.

The press of a thousand pens, metamorphosed
the crackling spines, arthritic joints of wise men
the rising dust, exhales of late masters
the opulent words, ropes of pearls
draped over my head, resting on my heart
that throbs with the miracle of antiquity revived-

Imprint these troves of syllabic mastery
on my eyelids, lest I sleep too long, or forget
to dream of phrontisteric ecstasties
So many pages left to take
like holy waifs of thought
transubstantiated-a million spirits revived
in the spaces between a pregnant clause
and
her immaculate afterthoughts.

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