Blake (Dreams) Job


             

those feet

upon a mountain’s green

unseen save in a painted dream


and intaglio etching copper

and wax

soon lost


so like steam

on cold lakes

in morning air

morning air with breathing

ghost filaments


creeping up

cloudy hills

among these dark satanic mills



an image engraved

into ground

wanting green


his bow of burning gold

his arrows of desire



a plate dipped in acid


inking a surface

wiping dabbing

pushing ink into bitten grooves


his spear

his chariot of fire


a final wipe with news


and close

a dimming day with

smoldered thoughts of

daemon fight


or daemon flight

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