with runaway eyes, not a metaphor.
I thought of you, perhaps amongst
the regalia of the forest as I dwarfed
along the perennially naïve notion
that you would appear in more than
my head---a drum's hallway. I am
inside of your roman à clef, an exagg
-erated egg in the yoke of these
"burning bitters." An astonishing flower
-ing of the overly familiar. & still,
no metaphor. & still, I stand at the door,
the back door where the moon-rays
drill holes in my sockets, arm-hair rising
to meet the illuminance, the way sorrow
rises in the heart's unstitched jungles;
rainforests of Borneo, an abandoned
bird's nest, & now I niggle when I
should be nestled in silence, in peace,
à la the tiger moth in a bright, neon
green garden.
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