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.