THE POET© By
a shadow through a forest
hosting trees of gray bones and
of only dust.
My nostrils cry in protest
to the oil smell of long-trodden,
A forgotten bead from a strand broken of age.
no other creature stir,
I hear spirit-laden, evening
Promising that one perfect thing.
the shadow slows in tarry
and lefts a feathered, inky finger
sky thick and heavy from air
breathed through too many lungs.
My eyes follow the infinite, milky thread.
Past fleeing winds over broken
To see a translucent, golden sphere levitating
touched. And breathed. And quilled response
To allusiveness engraved on moist and thirsty
I know with senses all save one
The rhythm of their song lulls
my weary weight to rest.
The inky finger touches slowly my lids,
closing dilated, seeking eyes.
and of a forest lush with shame and glory.
a sense of place seeping truth from abreast,
I lay on webs of softly rotting,
Suckling tranquil pulp of laborious seed,
none to be ever lonely more.
I groan with spirit-laden, evening voice
promises of that one perfect
away to the birthing East
But feel a soulís lusty mate in inky West