#8

I stood to gain much more than lose, so sat to wile the time. Warped mirrors on my writing desk to hedge and deploy my subject. Oh, Grace from Grace where perfit Grace remain'd, with nary a name to signal: I write in full bemusement, am besot, and gesture falsely fore and aft, and never attend my muse! My hands are stationed far from my thighs. Whatever wine is spilt tonight will find its private drain. The way colors become words. Luculent. Epicene. Simular. And all is non-ubiquity.

I've walked that curving path. Then, back then when the flame was snuffed, my ears plugged so as to miss the eulogy. A Gaveston on motorbike, a Circe and her lamb. Come meet her, silent now - where are you? The shirtless skies and flaccid morns. The treason wet with bilge and metaphor. Snake oil, poems and such. My endless abnegation from the concert floor. The moon, I would say, was a fingernail. Or a gouge. But no one heard such things.

"Give me a moment to denude," he said, denuded in the stairwell black. As Icarus lolled in the land above the clouds, where night is never known and truth is the warmth of day. There is no dissembling there: no poetry, and no love. No death to stalk us with flowers. Patience is made for the world below, imperfect forms to mark the hours, language that hides and seeks with coos. And the readers? They put in what the author's put out. Countering a riddle with a rhyme. That first and last you did vouchsafe to see. Translating hues. And taking the place of no one to listen to the absence that is yours. I know, yes I know. Ariadne took her thread out, after all, from the hope chest filled with treasure. The secret? It was a lasso.