with a raised hand, the air wails

theremins have desperate, wobbling souls
that flicker in the narrow land unseen:
they caress the air purgatorial,
for they are the extinct fear of the gods

the earth is sewn with their unease,
their half-hearted, polyphonic memories
that climb the silent will of chrome
and slide down the descending scream

and withering in the palm of uncertain hands
lies the pale hope of the meadows,
which casts its electric weight like the
swan song of a murder mystery dream

third eye

violets are ultraviolet, inviolate
rich atlantean secrets
whispered in the time before the flood,
lifted from each century’s stains of
vulgar luminous blood

enumerating the days with
their invisible retina halos,
they camouflage royalty
sometimes in sickening ways
as they are traded like silk
along a road lined with satin eyes

to accent our delicate necklaces of time,
we carry around their fragrant corpses
like jewels upon our brow,
lost in liminal nectar
from the grocery store to the grave

mila sherman

Looking Glass (2025)

The Anointed Ones (2025)