Blue Petal Trance – Jonathan Hine

nothing, this dream body: delineating
junk-body dull static flare-up 
sacred echo blotted-out sutra,
such a slip-
rekindled seven miles wide
to shatter there misty-eyed,
a broken ether-body
oracle drum-style elliot g rifle on
akasha autofire.
foul night of the cloud blue 
though you passed through me
inexorably bound
as if not knowing culminated autosuggestion,
evoking with delicate 
flesh-tint precocious incarnations as though wrenched out-of-body and bored 
into makeshift memorials near the overpass off-ramp. 
you, the foreword climbing ghost nebula
that cleaves,
the waves of oceanfront dreamland and counted-off star-patterns
made dauntless even in 
round-trip creation