Abrasion's Peal

Vernon Frazer & Michelle Greenblatt


A man passes through a closed gate,



                         a woman swan dives onto concrete because the gate

 was Heaven's. And then what?





                                           know one valence can turn


on the others

& devour them, one O at a time



of the prophecies spoken


                  through their gaseous loins





flaming mouths. Precious


                           metals fly off your tongue


when you speak,


leaving me scrambling on the ground, trying to pick


up what I can. It's not enough that


your medallions reject collection, my hand forever


            an empty grip.


Your internal chemistry



F       L       A       R       E      S



D     E      M      O      N              O      R    A      N    G    E



against the celestial grating


                                    or any other overturned figurine


A scheduled disruption


                                            of molecular particles


dances on vandal hooves.


A bird falls. A clock stops. I open my hands


to receive

                      (as supplicant)


the night


in selflessly-absorbed moment of bliss that pins





the blurring edges creeping into a scream                         at the




turn more harrowing with each deep breath                       of the



I attempt spinning away from me into the vortex


of my ecstatic asphyxiation. During


my dervish dance, I miss

                                                winter chewing away at the

devilish darkness which sucks softly at autumn's leftover lunch of leaves.


Grasped already, the lid to the missing bitterness is black-beaten

             and deadened by doorways


leading down hall of empty mirrors


reflecting each other


looking for the self among them.



The terror                           of your                      refractions


                   simmers                its slow burn,



a singe that scalpels my skin,



at the core of my whirling







where too much is too little and too little is always enough, I'll look out


onto a land of untouched snows and sail over ice, certain in my confusion


that I am not dreaming


of concrete below


                                                 the vertical iron grating


of time,

  like sheet

 metal banging sheet metal

 clanging repeatedly


over my clamorous plea


for entry,




my entreaty



       and breath's frightening imbalance


turning rose into stone and stone into dust. Mold green color creeps

up my arms and covers

                              my face. A word comes through the

trees and it says to me




                                        The meaning in the tongues


                                        of leaves whispering wind


                               hovers above the scent of your remonstrance.


Abrasion's peal


                        recedes from the bell's stricken clamor