Poem: Wylder

 

 

Wylder

 

i’m skilled at reading

the swoopfonts of bats.

too sensitive, maybe, 

in a world where tears bleed,

for few can winnow sorrow from blood.

to touch a stump

yields circuitous crowns.

a lilt of pine needles, lazy in breeze,

she is my masseuse, ah, such fingertips!

which lift to strum light swerves

across my naked curvatures.

 

when the drunken moon

scrabbles in torn skies,

(such moody cinema)

my soles stagger and spar  

to lay me on a bed of dawn.

 

a magus in a cocoon, then,

afloat in unstable bliss

as petals unfurl around me,

exposing themselves, down

to the very last calyx of a rose.

 

but the ribs below,

these i will not touch.

those cages of bone, starved for breath,

never again to wake sensitive.

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8/27/24