June 16, 2015 – mindlovemisery

Zwobel

Her unseamed flesh suggests neither

Fall nor insurgence but a sorrow

More prolific and pandemic than grain.

–

The dirty halo of her ancestors afflicts

Not through acquisition but through attachment.

A slavering of words unfit for a child’s ear,

A slavering of fists unfit for a child’s possession.

–

They’ve pierced her heart, worms

In the apple of eyes too blind to glint.

A key scratching door after door

In hopes of reconciling the fit.

–

There are no players in this game

No levels and no present moments

Worth the labor of acquisition.

–

Her mind approaches the air

Drinking in each passage, each tornado

As if it were a fever, a phase

In the consistency of consciousness.

–

Her red shoes splinter the ground

On which they rest, the unseen dervish

The mangled bike in search of vagrancy.

–

Her dress woven of snow-white cotton

Does not chance upon the sun

But on the slow and singular articulations

Of a moon half-risen and slightly strained.

For

mindlovemisery