Wait and cry out, until he sees her, Caesar
of the valley, white in linen, shapeless in shape

-lessness. The keyboard I touch is like dancing
on a frozen island--fingers like the Equater

reversing itself inward, the earthen-orange core
glazes like lava boiling upon the decline

of a sinking culture. The faint sky, a noirish
brake-cavity, lump of cell hovering above, rain

slides from clouds, a vibe of sprezzatura.

Tonight's fortune cookie fortune:

            "The evening promises romantic interests."

Is that criminal slang for

           "Put the other end of the rope in your mouth
           and clamp down with your teeth"?

I am picky beyond the physic, denying error,
as if there is an art without failure.

           "Who are you?" I ask to bestir my curiosities.

           "I am your mind, and you are the runway
           in which I never run; you swallow the words
           that I provide you, as if with blank Bingo cards;
           the triumph of word over flesh!"

quoteth the mental Sayven, forever[sayeth]more.

No comments:

Post a Comment