Cold southern autumn. Broken like the branches on the ground, defeated like the dying leaves. Lazy. I cannot write today. I've tried hard. Better to let it rest, I think. The chilliness is settling into what passes for my soul.
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A Dead Priestess Speaks
ReplyDelete" ... then They may read the pattern
though you may not,
I, being dead"
with expelled breath
I rime a straight-line of oaks
watch the young and the fools
sing selfish songs;
this refrain will not be New.
Ice-crystals snake
and twist up the black branch,
your overdressed arms and a refusal;
thorns of sun spike the evergreens
but they can't warm you
there is no resurrected Jesus to come and rescue.
I ply your threads
I play with the thoughts in your head
knit them with spindled fingers
and crush the jumping flea between my teeth.
Pull open your stupid eyes
your flowers will evaporate
your sex
the worms degenerate,
they said I was Good
but I am not.
Carefully, I jerk the knot
let go
and jerk it again
sing a round
dance a circle
strangle, strangle
strangle
the frail, seasonal Roses.
after H.D.
A small token of my appreciation for allowing me to read your blog.
That's too beautiful. How can I write anything after that?
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