Poem: Blur

 

Blur

 

years of confusion

gloss the cut of my lips,

beauty without control of its mazes,

a panther agile to woo lengths of neck,

invisible of claw.

 

in a forest of scroll-barked birches,

i lope like a spell-chaser,

wishing even now

the whip of the branches would absolve me,

or fashion at least a less brutal

musculature.

 

rain comes down,

pinning dew to my exhilarant fits--

and so they rail all the more,

into the curse of fluid shrapnel,

castigating the clouds which somehow

tear themselves more recklessly

than i

 

 

am torn. 

 

torn and abated.  but lust

seethes again in the depths of such

needy wounds, a hidden accuse,

so much like long ago,

when a child scraped his bed,

afraid to leave.

 

will i continue to hug this tired effort?

 

these hundred seasons of hurt

spiraling into the pits of memory?

these victims which have taken root,

holdfasts of hurt kelp, to whirlpool still

in spectral waters, so tangled and twisted

by the seductive blur of surface?

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