.
Through my dull green
Paned window
I observe a home
That fissures a line
Within
me, a horizon
Beyond
dim daylight
Thoughts
evoke
The
flesh, blood interiors
Of
this home
In
my mind’s eye
Perhaps
it’s suppertime,
Perhaps
a family is
Giving
thanks,
Before
partaking
In
stuffing bellies
Like
blind men
Seeking
nurturance,
Hands
join with hands
As
clasped hands grasp prayer
In
stories, threaded and sawed
Not
of truth
But
of approximation
The
hope that fables instill
From
that family’s skewed horizon
Glancing
west toward the night
Darkness
ever beseeching fictions
Of
residual day birth
While
the sun bleeds into clouds
The
dusky moment captures
Time’s
paralysis
The
incapacity
To
embrace
Relentless
night
As
goodnights depart with goodnights
And
sweet dreams decay…
Yet
I know the banked fires
By
which these solemn myths refrain:
The
comfort of an evening’s slumber
A
hearth’s internal flame
The
red brick tiles of their rooftops
Are
rounded and full almost bursting
~~~
Insectivore
Your fingers pound the edges
Of the table as I hum
Above, around, beneath you
To touch your skin
Your eyes, disdaining
At the very least producing
Slight arrest in you
As you witness me, dismissing me
As miniscule
And I bear witness
To my experience of being
Annoying, aberrant, shamed
Are you blind?
Can you not see?
My dashing skirt?
My delicate limbs?
My lightness of spirit?
My silver-winged body?
~~~
A Handmaiden of the Sun
The evening cools
Especially the bones
As the air stirs
Leaves reminiscent
Of the storm that
never came
The
settling sun permits
The
caste-eyed
Lunacy of the moon
A half-blind eerie goddess
Made to wait upon his light
Staring straight but sullenly
She arches in the sky
Unblinking whispers solitude
She drifts below the earth
Moon light never
Self-acknowledged
Her glance, a muted glare
Captivated, envying
The
countenance of the sun
~~~
To
render self
In this room dust gathers
On permutable
Folds and tears in walls of skin
Of surface lies, an essence
I am almost there
Artificial light (it can’t be called
Anything else)
Situated in my eyes
I, only I, know this
A little particle, eternal
Dreams of something more
A spark, perhaps, resistant
To light’s obliteration
Within the glass, distortions
Mirroring of self
However non-committal
I am almost there
No comments:
Post a Comment