This poem is black clacked
on ivory snow, kerned coal
footprints across a field of ice.
This poem is one tiny piece of
rice in an ebony bowl, a flutter of
feather against the night sky.
This poem craves the inky imprint
of a song, a strain of stillness, a life sentence
with an ellipsis stamped at the end; a scrap
of chalkdust ribbon to tie around its own small
on a moonless sea. A still, small
smoky voice in a pristine room. A domino
falling. A bow tie and well-shined shoes.
Zebra-stripe swipe it
if you will, spill it out in oil and milk
and swill it with a swizzle stick. It’s tarred
and feathered and glued together
with that pasty stuff we all
sniffed in school.
It’s about to don Dracula’s cape
and some fierce fake fangs, and hide
itself in a darkened cave – or perhaps
save itself with the convenient truths
of a halo and gossamer wings.
It’s an onyx yo-yo on a string,
the yin and yang rhythm of its own sigh
Bleach it smooth as sunburned sky.
Smudge it something
…………………………it can keep.
prompted by dVerse.