Unlocked.
Whispering to the hillside
and the beast I imagined nearby,
thoughts poured unwittingly to the open air.
Whether dream or something
far more wicked,
he was there, near me,
ready to take
before the sun readied its arc
and while rivers churned
with feverish return of spring.
We will all be left, discarded
like shadows at midnight.
There will be nothing to hold when it is over.
But it is not over.
The morose firefly
could not be bothered
to light the way
with his ass
so he flew
in the dark,
falling
as soon as he hit
the wall.
It’s a shame to lose
a friend like a piece of chalk,
worn by grinding time
and non-cherishing winds;
if we are all dust,
some are lighter than others
and are not meant to stay.
Today’s anxiety is brought to me
by the letter G and some sort of
orangeish hungry, helmeted carpet-eater
with a penchant for numbers
and a body meant to be tossed.
But not like a salad, more like
driftwood on a stormy ocean;
but that’s telling stories
out of school, isn’t it?
Taking a tender shoot
made up of wadded seed
and affection there was no room for,
they planted an idea
and created a living monolith
full of tortured whispers of want-
it was not a place of peace
but of comfort and intimate color
lighting up the night
like counting sums that turn out right
or a hand settling in another
just right
when there’s nowhere else to turn.
They called it Spellbound
and laughed at anyone who thought it a trick
because only people can be fools,
not the heart.
The Word Rummager 