Poem: Hidden In a Closet

 

Hidden In a Closet

dogged fonts amass into scaffolds,

constrict a page, tumble and fall,

again and again,

until a journal lays crying,

bloated in blue and smudge.

 

bound to spiral, it wobbles a little, 

a limp bird curling down,

flapping a bit under dirty clothes

in a closet’s moth-eaten throat.

 

it's a slush pile within a slush pile, 

guts of ink that bristle with secrets:

lust sobbed; monsters inflicted;

care bright yet vulnerable, so weak.

 

so many stupid, flawed young hopes, 

expressed so wrong, whether trite 

or jabberwocky mauled by a gryphon.

many, many wings of marred paper,

never to fly, never to erupt.

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