| God and the Neophyte
Little head dead amidst the tombs, Tell them how god has nothing on you. There are no others in the garden fair As quiet in life and loud in death as you. Tell them you came first, Suffocating in your glass and ungentle sex. I shall not compress the tears Except to express you would not compress Them for me. Against me, hold it not That I am a man who sees Your seal across the path I wish to rage. Favor them with another tale. How they stir restless in your great hour� Dark and sleepless mornings Before the mouths of houses Open to the light, and the weary Winter comes cold as a murderous eye. And how others hunger In scores, to believe They are the arisen body Of you. I see it in my own love, Err and tremble of the swift slope of words She panders in her years of unrest, A mother she loves and living her death, A fool who mimes a man betraying breath, Bereaving with child and one child more, Desperate in heart and means To meet a belief as if one shall Rocket to flames from hope She bites from coral in the sea. I am saddened by your fraught life, Unfilled by the tears that carry away The petrel to the fading stars Near Ariel. I see no aromatics Whispering around the mensa you longed leave. Even the moon has plights. Even the sad boys of winter have short nights. Do not look to me. Do not look at them. Do not look at the quiet graves. We are in the candles, not the flames� Toadstool swain, inedible in air. My pearl, perhaps, whose curse of love is deep As her curves. Yes, her. It could be her. Yes. She has your cure in the length of her hair, And the words in a wisp that trues the air. Todd K. Bush � 2004 |