Poem: Limbo

 

Limbo

 

uncertain at 4am

of a fox with the wail of a stabbed girl

or an owl who berates this asylum, 

i roll the two faces of my skull

left to bright, right to dark,

underestimating

the harlequin draw, how drunk

with sleep my fancies seem

and yet barbed in their visions

with some terrible logic.

this place

where timelines knot, where specters

could be lovers not yet born,

and paupers in gutters

speak like gods, and worse still

those infants from long ago, when lions

capsized what they devour  

right in front of you--you

witness the red depths,

not given the grace of fear,

only to wonder at the large figures

brutish to transform,

very much unswayed by your loss,

and always, in some heart-wrung sense, once more,

so enraged.

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