We all need
the human touch, but
in its absence we
turn to other,
purer pursuits : we have all
been sawed in
half by the doomed urge
toward love. We
talk to strangers &
blow smoke, open
our robes
in hopes of something
other than a distorted
mirror image
of our own shrunken
desires. She
donned her cloak of
feathers &
kicked way over my
head, not the first
but certainly
the most recent muse
to stand smug
& isolated just off the
beaten track. Nightshade
could be said to be
medicinal when one can
only fan the flames
that creep toward
the shadowy audience.
The hidden band
plays something jaunty
from the wings
while the nightingale
sings; he's only holding
his breath or so
they say. This is
the luxury of falling apart
in public: Nobody
knows it's not
just a spectacle.
No comments:
Post a Comment