Resurgence

a poem by Roger B Rueda

The extremity
has rounded
across the steps,
and earthed its lime
into fine-grained rock
and upcoming spell.
It cringes
while midsummer does
under a ballooning blur.
As foliage falls
down, I pit
my carpus into rock,
pat the scratch,
and set.
I whet my pegs
against the blare
created
in the skeleton
of the rainy days—
whose ricochet teems
in small rock,
whose pitch cords
through falling extremity,
whose shape endures
the snivel of midnight's labour.
A flagging spirit pulls
my tone of voice
under the solid sprinkle to live
in the gasp of kernels,
to lie in the source
of fresh skeleton, novel lime.
My snuffle will intone the labour
of terror's lucid flow.
My looming cry
will put off this
once bowl-shaped skeleton.