Sunday, February 19, 2006

Without Title

Without Title

the viscous hardness of glass
is cool against my fevered forehead.
I am calm, ever the pillar of strength,
the image of bull-like serenity,
while red incites riots inside
this quasimodoid body.
I feel my blood-flushed skin connect
and meld into the pane
fingers follow; knuckles, hands,
bleeding wrists and arms, and all.
like stepping through a cobweb,
the window becomes my train.
I always tried to be honest, and now,
made of glass, the matter’s made easy
now no shape matters - mine can’t be seen.
I walk, and like an empty goblet,
the silence and the stillness fill me to the brim.
I gently pluck a flower from the earth,
drift absently through a bench, and think of him.
a sudden breeze gathers shards of glass.
I find I’m falling to pieces.
I see him come. I don’t have a reason.
I take a breath, feel my being expand,
and, like a sigh, evaporate.
the flower falls, the danger passed.
the story’s safe.


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