Poem: Blur

 

Blur

 

years of confusion

gloss the cut of my lips,

beauty without control of its mazes,

a panther wooing lengths of neck

with invisible claws.

 

through forests of scrolled birches,

i lope like a spellcaster,

wishing on and on

the whip of the branches would absolve me,

or fashion at least a less brutal

musculature.

 

rain fistfights down,

pinning dew to my dramatic fits--

and so they rail all the more,

into the curse of the fluid shrapnel,

castigating ghosts in the clouds 

which somehow tear themselves more recklessly

than i

am torn. 

torn and abated.  but heat

seethes again in the depths of the

cuts, a hidden accuse,

so much like long ago,

when a child scraped his bed,

afraid to leave.

 

will i continue this tired effort?

will i hug

 

these hundred seasons of spiral

within the pit of my memory?

these victims ...

long taken root,

holdfasts of hurt kelp, to whirlpool still

in spectral waters, so tangled and twisted

by a seductive blur 

of surface?

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6/20/26... flip-flopping edits on which word to use... ... getting old... grey of thought...

6/19/26 lots of mods