Fine Flu Journal Fine Flu Journal- june 2014 | Page 50

Detour

Bobbing for apples under a raincloud.
Soon what was planted will flourish
and the empty casket under the bridge
will be a nest to weather out winter’s storms.
I will never know you, not as
a weak-kneed dancer or as a lover,
blurred by idealism. I will be in the dumpyard
with the rest of the dead flowers,
caught off guard by your morning song.
My shadow rises like a weed into a tree,
simple company for empty days. You are skin and fury,
a shore that is quicksand with many mosquitoes lingering
around. I was stuck on your butcher’s block, smelling of
musky ambition. I was predatorial, though myself, never
a match for your strengthening spikes.
Honesty is a Sunday summit, punishing to pursue,
dropping undergarments for a glimpse at purity.
Wings are hallways I have lost track of. Like circus lions
they struggle, beaten, chained, with useless magnificence.
I flattened my folds for you, spread myself as a net
over what was precious and wild
to work for your children, to maintain the belief
that the back-mirror-reflection would come alive.
Half way into eternity, building in me like the scent of salt water.
Another lifetime I may be in motion, with you, joyfully rolling down hills.
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