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Dalia |
the horizon bares itself with a snarl,
and I am coming to realize that what is arrayed against me
is nothing as simple as a rotten impulse or molded habit.
It is the whole weight of my days, assembled in ranks,
their length and measure wound around my wrists, my neck.
My righteousness is an armor of glass,
utterly transparent in its construction and inevitable defeat,
and obdurate, as I grasp swiftly but ricochet off the surface.
The plane of opportunity wanes orange, purple, blue-black.
This frequency is cloistered in calculation,
measured out in tinny spoons, sutured irretrievable.
A milestone ago, an octave to come, have fermented and coated my throat,
like wet on a black deck.
I strain to see eves and gospels
from below imbricated shingles.
Labels: Dalia
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