TRIAL

Anthony Conover

true
white
gown
caught on branches,
hair tossed across
the blooming domes of
wheat blossoms,
scar tissue indistinguishable
against the
flaxen husk of
early autumn.

everything seems
ripe with grandeur
when you’re a
seventeen year old messiah
with a fake I.D. and a
map of California
back roads.

skilled in
linguistic minimalism,
cutting the apple to thirds,
juices running down a
clean chin,
eyes crusted with
absinthian soliloquies
outpouring.

the orginal sin was
the unspoken curse.