My sins leave upon me a weight of unsung sorrow,
And it’s only six a.m.
The dawn breaks in my room, as though
The iron rod that hems the glass body of
Me, from breaking
It’s unreal, and hangs about the noose of cobwebs
Like a dress on display, a strut as mechanical
As the aesthetic of a rusted chandelier.
It’s the feeling, the awareness
That comes upon a poet after so long
A break from discourse with his muse;
The veins grow bigger, the noise tastes purer
The words rip through, paper isn’t enough,
Nor the lamplight dim enough.
I feel the quivering of my writing hand
As it sings the under song of
The three little birds outside in the drenching cold
The world smells like the wet dog
Upon which pleasantness unerringly cringes
And the smile of that ugly poppet thing
Creeps upon me like a ragdoll’s daintiness.
In the fields, where the pines and the humus
Smell like harems, where the sun rests on
The shoulders of the stemmed trees.
Here where I can be alone,
Where my sullenness plays scarecrow
To the birds that seek to perch on my raggedy shoulder
This bed of stems, this garden of weeds,
Where the memories of last night, of all nights
Mount me, for they know where I sleep
And regret looks sickly
Keening songs where throats wouldn’t suffice
And the weight holds the falling skies
In abeyant hopes
I have awoken into a world still asleep
The grapevine of reason
Leads to the graveyard of abandoned whys
And I dig the sordid ground
For once in search of something other than reason