Fixing loose-curl auburn lockets, the pins embed
And turn again. Step, and forward sway the hipbone,
Thirty, forty, a flight of granite looming forward,
Front and back, past my skirt tail – laden laced, pearly
Quiet go the foot pads, front illuminations rest forgotten,
Past the small mouse scuffling four-paw: zigging, zagging
Along the stair stage. Past the morning call in woodpecker
Tongue, squalls and loudly names the dawning. Softly,
I ascend the cold rough stairwell;
careful
Not to spend courage whole.
Wring the rusty thoughts of amorphous dreaming, eat the
Bad thought before the stairwell – ******* orts and morsels thin
Of single tipped barbs, and doubted quenching
alas
Before they mean too much.
Wave with white hands a fare-thee-well, the apparition
That pauses; portentously grinding its nothing on the wall
Seemingly real the whitewash of nothing, he is voided
But lives existent in that other-world well,
Singing, and that much better for it.
Twitch the dreaming skull-bone loose, and question not,
As I mask my tooth-grin with knuckled fingers;
He spots me slinking past the wound in time
and calls me closer,
So that I may meet him.
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 6:46 AM UTC
Fixing loose-curl auburn lockets, the pins embed
And turn again. Step, and forward sway the hipbone,
Thirty, forty, a flight of granite looming forward,
Front and back, past my skirt tail – laden laced, pearly
Quiet go the foot pads, front illuminations rest forgotten,
Past the small mouse scuffling four-paw: zigging, zagging
Along the stair stage. Past the morning call in woodpecker
Tongue, squalls and loudly names the dawning. Softly,
I ascend the cold rough stairwell;
careful
Not to spend courage whole.
Wring the rusty thoughts of amorphous dreaming, eat the
Bad thought before the stairwell – ******* orts and morsels thin
Of single tipped barbs, and doubted quenching
alas
Before they mean too much.
Wave with white hands a fare-thee-well, the apparition
That pauses; portentously grinding its nothing on the wall
Seemingly real the whitewash of nothing, he is voided
But lives existent in that other-world well,
Singing, and that much better for it.
Twitch the dreaming skull-bone loose, and question not,
As I mask my tooth-grin with knuckled fingers;
He spots me slinking past the wound in time
and calls me closer,
So that I may meet him.
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