You are crazy and beautiful
and wounded and wild
and the youngest daughter
of a coven of poetic sea-witches,
At war with the world and yourself
like two halves of the same unbroken wishbone,
A day of writing, trying to clarify myself
to Alysia, myself, Alysia, to the night rain,
trying to hang the universe on the tip of an eyelash
without blinking, pulling handfuls of the stagnant dimensions
Rain at five in the morning. Can't sleep.
Too many shards of broken mirrors
of the way things are in my mind.
Not enough windows to look through
You were the intimacy
of the things I loved
that were so impossibly far away
I could never reach out and touch them
Yes, there are pale gardens, wings ribbed
like the eyelashes of butterflies, and roses
of flaking blood rooted like something
that was said between the lines of lovers
My death was a quiet event.
I entered the abyss with all
the constituents of the first sign of life
to give voice to the silence
Taking an upbeat flambuoyant approach toward catastrophe.
A good attitude to go on perishing by.
Adept at it.
Like Atlantis happy enough
I don’t know what I’m here for.
I just write. I just paint. Like breathing
in and out. Inspired expiration. I watch the rain,
blankly, sometimes for hours, washing off the dust
Counting Orphic skulls on the abacus of a spider web.
Listening to them click like pool balls, crabs and castanets.
I'm beading new solar systems out of the nebular air. I'm seeding
clouds of unknowing with genetically unmodified meteors.