snow is coming and someone feels it
skinless though they are, and eyeless too
noseless mouthless earless
and organs all dust-gray.
they crouch in a garden—
they clutch at a head—
while down beneath, a little dove
is sitting on a wire in high-summer
telephone line undulating
viper jaws flex;
pink mouths are crying;
cold front hugs its neighbors—
stealing in—the dove clings.
an enlightened spider creaks
in a white rafter, and there's mildew
far below on the whining wooden floor
that smells like chamomile.
the spider knits in her chair.
her children have gone and she's aging
and she's staying up later every night and
an elderly fruit bat lives in the chapel off the
freeway; every night he visits the spider, sings,
rubs his cane along the floor, says ((oh how pretty!
my little lovely; I wish I'd see your face))
and the knitter cannot help but blush.
a sunbeam makes acquaintances with
skinless eyeless noseless mouthless earless touchless
and the pair crotchets a low-lain atmosphere
so all beings are two.
a spider and a bat dance doubletime
and break themselves down slowly;
woman and man, isn't it? and it's love.
a dove and a wire knock , knock ,
the doors apart and go
their separate ways, two gaps
in the cold air and a portal leaking sun.
Jamaica is thawing, and it's too hot, and it's love.
through these openings pours light
and on this light lies skinless eyeless
bedded with a god worshiped in vain
yellow sheet folded neatly down
corporations below yelling
((light, grace us))
as they fold yellow sheets in
their smoothened white kitchens,
while a church rots inside out.
do you still say it must be love?
YOU ARE READING
These Hazy Days
PoetryA collection of poetry for the summer and autumn days. cover by me, on canva.com all rights reserved. ...
