.

* * *

Psych Ward

When I tear myself off this warped page,
I will no longer doubt.
No longer will I shake myself inside out
To catch a glimpse of something beautiful.
For as much as I can deceive, it is
Certain to shrivel as blades in July meadows.
I am bitter air
Heaved down from beyond the margins of dreams.
I know these fissures where the shadows live;
I played with them until they turned mean
And bit, and told me to go home.
So I started along a white corridor
Thinking I knew the way,
All the while perceiving that the route
Had changed somehow:
Too many locked up doors
And I could not remember which was my own.

* * *

Persephone

Before the night died down, the world
Was still. My breath powdered the way,
Porous in the damp. Mist clung like a child
To the horizon. And I slowly waited.

Lamplight illumines a webbed mess of twigs,
Like circlets as we wore once days long ago.
Silver and cold, the outline of coins,
And for the life of me, I won’t look away.

No, I still search for you in the street some days.
You’re so bright; I guess it can’t be helped.
You eclipsed my earth; my little planet
Curled up and slept through the darkness.

My eyes in the mirror now are full and fierce but
It’s a long job to keep a straight back sometimes.
I become the scarlet ghost of child days, occasionally
Pretend you are behind me: I square my shoulders.