Monday, August 24, 2009

Poetry Year August 24th

The ghost of poetry stalks my meter,
a gait that gallops, lame, and halts.
Seized by moments of ecstatic spasm,
and lost by placid splay of rest.

I turn, and find you dressing in the moonlight,
I cry and beg you,
don't go out the door.
The stars that guide you are inscrutable,
burying deep your secret lusts,

That headed monster that I eat,
but that eats my soul,
and snaps my bones into nether shapes
wrapped around it for your reveries.

I straddled you like a horse,
but there is no return to here from here.
There is a swamp we enter,
seeping from your angry eyes.
Don't go out the door.
I witness you rave at the wall,
as your write your questions,
on my skin,
to some heaven.

I will take you through any door,
if only you will leave that one,

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