Poem: Comforter

 

Comforter

 

this paradox of marvels

flirts with the sculpt of my fingers,

 

cowls and cloaks

in a cuddle of oblong ghosts,

 

or the warmth of tongue-savored vanilla

as it melts away,

 

or weaves of humpbacks and dolphins

swimming from a churn of tourists,

 

or the throne

of cumulus-plump, Elysium-worthy pelts,

on which i soar

 

toward the rolls of a much desired

deliquesce of sleep.

 

would this comforter 

wrap me entire in its orchestra,

 

waists of cellos and violins

alert with cylinders and cymbals

 

to the flare-lip of fate's

most blissful horn?

 

i can see it now, almost,

 

hips of kettle drums and bassoons

on waves of harps and flutes,

 

rapture’s most fantastic music,

passionate of metamorphosis,

 

till dawn.

 

 

 

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