I can idly bide time
pirouetting knives on thumbs
or wrestling crocodiles
in ponds for crumbs
but for all these things
inside it is the bee that stings
to contract the fleshy brain:
my barnacled heart
here the wretch convulses
between paper cut and paste to
salvage gallions from impulses
and dredge my rainbows dry
against internal brine
the whale thrusts at the wall of air
to find metaphors there
to leave the carcass behind
No comments:
Post a Comment