There’s No Vision Like A Vision

Leap the owl, to the door, to the sidewalk, to the night; cross hands,
cross legs, hold in the breath; let the sleeping people be ghosts
in their hunkard homes; I’ve a leopard, I’ve a gnat, I’ve a hound
purring-buzzing-howling in my glass; the wine is red, but not red,
hardened into ice; a blood popsicle, burnt leather, clay black; solid.

I can’t drink the woe – I lick it, suckle it, let it drip; a numbing glacier
with girth like my aunt, mountainous eyeshadow teething her brow;
I’ve scant, too many, an overfilled pot, and empty fridge, an ewe;
no rest for me, the numbers shrink; small fry lover on the stoop
bemoaning the hours, a scratch-scratch-scratch at the wood.

Laden me with beads, till I cackle like the hearth; fires contort,
kama sutra, shadows toying, ravens winging up the flue; needle
my first bones, oldest cells, eared shells in my fingers, a-ratta-
ting-ting; stuff the pendulum down the gullet of the clock; devious
dealings, I’ll trade my eyes for two dice, throw them on the planks.

A-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding; shut chest, billow of dust;
time is a thin line of light in the crease of the page, a key hole for
my shade to slip, weedle in, disappear; dogged, deviled, Deimos
drenched in wax, a figurine stepping from the base and tip-toeing
by its own volition up my knee, cresting my breast, my throat;
there’s no vision like a vision that skims, rustles, but never breaks.

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