It is not acid ...
not its sour thorn
on the tongue
smarts my eyes;
nor some faint disappointment
like a guardian moth
tracing some opiate poison
on the canvas of old bones
under old skin in lethal ambience.
It is lithe poetics of green
tree snakes, twisting their tight
symmetry in silence
or your verses, forgotten with mine,
locked up, rusted through
in cabinets of lines lurking
along pathways of a mind
that is not snake swift.
Yes, these poems, once familiars
like soft tree frogs,
spring with life-energy
and vigilant vitality
or clumsily hold fast
like cranky old toads
clambering on swamp logs.
It is not acid ...
nor its fierce embers
that yawn tired prayers.
It is not acid ...
nor its rough sands
in the throat
but the grip, tight to my neck
of the sense of my library,
an exhibition of thousands
piled to the ceiling
and my name
not on one cover.
It is not acid ...
nor its sour burn
only, but truth ...
a midnight hubris sketch
playing, Too late old fellow
and dislodged dust falls
from dry parchments
primed with child dreams
and bad poetry
decaying line by line,
phrase by peripheral phrase
to the place all words go ...
eventually.
Bronze trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Ron.
