fibonacci

fibonacci

 

 

there is golden geometry wrapping

my wounds              div/iding

 

the pain into

compartments        fractions

 

of memories split/ting

atoms within me      I erase

 

the entrails that ferment

and burn out a star-core here

 

before it collapses under

the gravity             my thoughts are

 

fibonacci:

 

a clear beginning without end

meant to spiral/and/spiral

 

 

David Bankson

 

 

David Bankson was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem, and his poetry and microfiction can be found in concis, (b)oink, Thank You for Swallowing, Artifact Nouveau, Riggwelter Press, Five 2 One Magazine, etc. He lives in Texas.