.
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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