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