Clair de Lune
Who
said the novel is a vaudeville show,
the
six o’clock news, the mumblings
of
wild men saddled by demons?
I
want to give you everything:
lavish
banquets, valuable books,
suits
made out of horse hair and twine.
I
want to give you the coronal sublime.
If
I speak for the dead, I must leave
this
animal of my body,
denatured
unto dust.
The
moon is in her stirrups
and
the doctor’s prognosis is time.
Lay
yourself on the tarmack;
ignore
the buzzards of air.
Alien
geometries may speak
in
vile tongues but you,
a
perfect storm, will prevail.
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