i. why that spilled epistle stayed unposted
the awkward reflection of a winter sun
on a ginger jar of bitter breakfast tea
still pokes the roving eye from a misplaced leer
to the mostly false purport of balky leaves:
there was, in a kind hysteria, no future in it.
conspicuous cups veil the blue of porcelain veins
that creep in time on the cupboard shores of sandy hinges.
a slim ouch of white in the creaky elbows
that reach for the learned cozy of woven cozzies.
there is a crazy danger in the modesty of weaves
and the oblique loops that define the trajectories
of lemon orbits that, falsely, denigrate the spin.
this we learned in youth.
ii. a lonely spin into the perversity of now
into the stiff rattle of drama that only wanted crease,
instead is delivered the suspect shroud of shriveled peace-
someone had remarked upon the beauty of the vulture
in a slippery dream that mattered much on waking:
makin' it easy for the clean-up crew
in the horrific now of meat space,
or so the vanilla argument went-
harrumph, harrumph, harrumph.
our lack of wings is comically entrancing.
iii. burning wood sometimes requires a kit
a cloned kitten with sixteen cloven toes
leaps forty feet through the tropical fog
to the crusty summit of a leafless tree-
while this amazing feat is a form of temptation,
the three ring circus of rapture always seems to bore,
it's so hard to imagine a Satan outside the door.
it is so hard to presage the anti-feline forces
that force with force to force the clipping-
why would you question the self that licks,
that contraindicates a rebirth in water so much better
than the brackish pools of brimstone's grim delight?
the stropped tools of an idle recreation
are shelved with the bracing smells of burnt sap
where, in this bitter sawdust winter,
the wood has barely blistered.
better to craft your own damnation.