Moses,
the March Hare and the thirsty goatskin
I
knew to crawl across broken glass
as
I tried to get past myself
to
look back to see if my life
was
just a bleeding out
of
sympathies for the devil inside me
vultures
circle high against the Sun
knowing
each thermal ridden
is
an unwind into the stench
of
any death that nears
the
last abyss we leap
one
they feed at the precipice
but
as choice and destiny
partner
the will of humanity
I
am strong enough sometimes
to
drink the slow sharp edge
of
melted sand as if it were cool water
in
a chalice full of ripe sate
so
while I am always late
and
in a hurry
scurrying
flurries of words
to
paint the exits
where
my soul goes to
where
my home seems to be
clutched
sand and time
pouring
out the mandalas
of
my intricate madness
I
rest a hat on my chest
and
smile for I am
not
dead yet
I
am not
I
am not
I
am not
just
another pierce-shard
reaching
for you
to
cull me into your memory
the
blood coming to the surface
says
look Edward you have trespassed
against
someone and here
is
their pain one knee at a time
one
palm pressed looking for a heartbeat
as
I look over my shoulder
and
see the drag of red
against
the desert floor
and
all the minions of promises
that
will ease the pain
like
a shot of morphine
or
the quickening of lead
but
something always tells me
to
go on and search out purpose
in
the vast empty landscapes
that
used to be tidal marshes
with
the sound of baskets
and
ample breasts
and
hoisted hems
waiting
to fish me out
waiting
for that me
I
dream about to reach out
from
the other side
of
infinite desire
as
the cactus tells me
how
to hold the water
and
to come and get some
but
the price is
that
bitten bullet
and
a ring of salt
around
my mouth
when
I am looking
at
the Sun after having
finally
given up to turn over
onto
my back to say
that
this life
is
something I want
no
more
EJR
©
Seventh stanza is remarkably visual, a hand reaching from the water to a waiting hand. I can hear waves lapping and the buzz of insects, well done.
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