The Augur of Water

The night is stained a darker black, the stars having hidden themselves behind their hair, refusing to look at what I have done. The ground swells before my deed, placing her at an elevated plane: within reach, within eyesight.

But Forget's a wily slippery thing-- coming up when you least expect it. Yet shieing away when you reach for it in need. So I close my eyes and play its game, biding my time (and feeling its centipede feet run across my face)...

A Random Thought

Apparently with no surprise
To any happy Flower
The Frost beheads it at its play --
In accidental power --
The blonde Assassin passes on --
The Sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another Day
For an Approving God.

Emily Dickinson
Apparently with No Surprise


Redemption, or to seek it, must be an invention fit for the House of Atreus. If not Comedy.

High Noon

If but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: “Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
That thy love’s loss is my hate’s profiting!”


Thomas Hardy
Hap

A bird flies overhead and its raven wing throws a shadow across your face; a pattern of maculate geometry, a puzzle I longed to figure out. I put the pieces in my head and find a picture: Memory blurs the edges of what must be, and instead paints another-- what it longs you to be. A picture caught in shifting physics, of light and shade, and its colours running to form another question. You stare at me, mouthing sentences. I stare back and place my mouth firmly against yours, swallowing all your words.

The Foundry

They wondered why the fruit had been forbidden:
It taught them nothing new. They hid their pride,
But did not listen much when they were chidden:
They knew exactly what to do outside.

Wystan Hugh Auden
They Wondered Why The Fruit Had Been Forbidden...


Alcohol ignites my tongue, unfetters what propriety and moral code would hold back, and sets lips to claim what truth that lie within reach. My heart flutters against the cage of my breast, and find myself caught against the bars.

Alcohol burns my throat in its headlong course to set fire to my heart, it leaves a wake resonant with the memory of heat. A trajectory though ponderous moves with unassailable Certainty, an accuracy borne only to the Reckless.

But what of consummation, what of destination? The expanse of flesh travelled, the truths woven to secure what flailing quarry, spoor and spur?