Friday, November 9, 2018

If She Isn’t Here



.
She doesn’t need dreams or boats.
She floats her schemes in breezes –
The mad zephyrs she wheedles out
From her despair and disgust over
what I have done when I’ve fussed
with her hair. She’s never touched
anything other than air – not our air,
.
but the air she creates in her secret
enclosure that I’ll never see,
although oh – how I wish it were
open to me! I’d love just a glimpse
of wherever she goes when she’s
gone to her lair. It’s from there she
irradiates out into space via thin leaky
.
streaks her response to the words
that the thing of me speaks, which
she hears all the time since I can’t
not intone what I type, while I type,
almost always in rhyme. She doesn’t
like rhyme, or anyway mine.
Each streak is a reflex – a burst
.
of aversion against the mistakes
I apparently cannot not make when
I write what I like in a verse –
which ignites her displeasure as well
as my own – further, curses my cause:
to regale her. She’s never not told me
I fail her. So why does she want me
.
at all? you might ask. My task,
and our bargain, are fearsomely clear.
If I do not draw her, she will not appear.
With what repercussions? Egregious,
my dear, and with no help from Jesus –
morbidly fatuous, fatally sly.
If she isn’t here, then neither am I.
.
.


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