04-16-2017, 05:00 PM
From the Cook Pot to the Fire
“Peter” I press against the weight of my
bedspread. Red coals lick the fire dogs an arm
away in the night. I loll. “Peter”
The rough hewn mossy logs I’d leaned above
me seem to be a slight bit red. The voice
still weighs in my ear. “I’m here,” I say.
Then a fortress gate upon ungreased and rusty
hinges creaks, creaks beneath the needled boughs
and out of sight. The winds then rustle more.
More unmanned partitions creak above me.
There, and there and there they’ve rooted
to the forest floor. I strain to integrate
my eyes - they’ve come unbound together, or
the coals are licking more than stumps. I sit
up on my bench and toss my spread away
to find the air revolting on my skin.
Bird feather fingers pressing in! IN!
“Heaven!” I roll to fall to earth. Pine needle
worms are strewn there - their teeth are bared. I’m on
my feet again, but the bench has blown
away as wind. Earth’s matter grows thin so
the fires within taint red the trees and shadows.
The coals alone seem to be. I leap
on them like a man on a turtle in the sea.
They’re cool like stones on a beach in the moonlight.
Blue light from somewhere then shines on her feet
- her nine pink nails glow violet.
I violently crawl to them, clasp them and
kiss them; I cling to her calves, climb to her knees,
but they’re open to the breeze like ashtrays
- blowing soot in the moonlight. “Heaven!”
--- They’ll think an old woodsman succumbed to
bad mushrooms. He succumbed to his grief
in the forest in the night of his life.
“Peter” I press against the weight of my
bedspread. Red coals lick the fire dogs an arm
away in the night. I loll. “Peter”
The rough hewn mossy logs I’d leaned above
me seem to be a slight bit red. The voice
still weighs in my ear. “I’m here,” I say.
Then a fortress gate upon ungreased and rusty
hinges creaks, creaks beneath the needled boughs
and out of sight. The winds then rustle more.
More unmanned partitions creak above me.
There, and there and there they’ve rooted
to the forest floor. I strain to integrate
my eyes - they’ve come unbound together, or
the coals are licking more than stumps. I sit
up on my bench and toss my spread away
to find the air revolting on my skin.
Bird feather fingers pressing in! IN!
“Heaven!” I roll to fall to earth. Pine needle
worms are strewn there - their teeth are bared. I’m on
my feet again, but the bench has blown
away as wind. Earth’s matter grows thin so
the fires within taint red the trees and shadows.
The coals alone seem to be. I leap
on them like a man on a turtle in the sea.
They’re cool like stones on a beach in the moonlight.
Blue light from somewhere then shines on her feet
- her nine pink nails glow violet.
I violently crawl to them, clasp them and
kiss them; I cling to her calves, climb to her knees,
but they’re open to the breeze like ashtrays
- blowing soot in the moonlight. “Heaven!”
--- They’ll think an old woodsman succumbed to
bad mushrooms. He succumbed to his grief
in the forest in the night of his life.