I
can’t escape you to wish for henna where indelible ink
breathes.
I’m illusion to tip that line composing like
madmen.
So statuette—a world in grief—to simmer
while
cooing. Cards are poetry to flip a deck searching
for
blackjack. I’m a griffin to flap wingless—my life; plus
for
wings: It’s in and out. I was plastic to morph for
steel
to sit alert to hidden tears. I’m an ant trampled
underfoot
or a wildflower plucked in due season. We
stare
upon windowsills puffing nicotine while sipping
coffee.
Was it flannel—an old shirt, buried in memories?
I
must escape you the heartbeat of fingerprints an ashtray
of
torments. It’s such for habit a channeled thought a
thousand
friends. I’m hailstone to carve a cactus to puff a
bungee
jump. It’s a touch of patience bottled in
frustration
the soul of a monk. What for challenge; a
wealth
of Torah, a fervent fever. If only to
travel the
nights
of the Ka’bah found for peace; but
life’s a
saxophone,
somewhere spinning, as low as bass. I flute
an
empire to crumble near a banjo to find fey an organ.
It’s
more the soul, stretching for heart, to move a voice.
I
see for trombones, and inward trumpets—to praise an
image.
It’s ever this puff a wind of gothic a river black.
