24 March 2019

Postcard 163

The moon is bored by my broad backed hubris
I - a small idol, worn by many slender hands -
a fallen fragment of a forgotten tree

My lazy daily backscratches lean
fenceposts in prostrate graduated angles
striking her sidereal path

My gated apsis is a persistent plod
mud-stomped retreading along
the fence-line's weathered undulation

It is a splintered rosary the moon
has absentminded dropped as if
she is fingered, as if she is anything

more than a myth lumbering
toothless in desolate twighlight
I bore the moon? No, she bores me!

Though I am an ivory horned beast
I am caged in alfalfa bliss and heather
I pace I stomp I charge I bluster

Wire hemmed I am fierce and mighty
Free, I am the idol comforted
by the moon's worn fingers -

fenceposts on her slender hands
We are free power but when bound
Moon penned bull in syzygie

No comments:

Post a Comment