Sangue di Jesus

Paint on the bottom of ballerina slippers,
inksplatters on rose - she blooms a virgin
flower fit to burst. Petals unfold, unwieldly words,
as winds rip these wishes free. One by one.
A countdown as the saints come marching sin.

Dancing calligraphy breaks face on heartache,
clipped wingers flutter in frantic discord and she
is colorwashed, bleach striped and slender,
a slipping sliver of truth between the text.
Critics call her fantasia - aficionados try to catch
the last of her oxygen in alleyways, park avenue and
boardwalk. All is bought, sold, paid for.

Rome is the rise and falling, she is
the show. Scambled on the stage-plate, have your meal:
la poesia è il momento prima che la morte
ed amerei vivere in esso.
Things like these freeze you tongue.

Sara--


There is too much happening in too small a space.

It has possibilities, but needs more than the Cliff Notes treatment.

Either pare down your scope or make this considerably longer.


Best,
Brad

PS: Imagery is a good thing, but, like all good things, you shouldn't abuse it. Images alone can't save your poetry.