Saturday, August 06, 2005


A narrow eyed man, all cloaked in black
Limps up from out the sea
Carrying a slick and leaking sack
And a spiraled iron key

He has come to make an offer
To a face without a name
And he carries his dripping coffer
With a quiet, patient shame

Down an alley dark and twisted
He waits in the puddling rain
The air is blue and misted
And his face engraved with pain

In pain he walks, in pain he waits
It engulfs, devours, transcends
He is lost within the dire straits
Of an anguish that never ends

A voice in the darkness hisses
Not an inch from where he stands
And the rain leaves frozen kisses
On his empty, open hands

“Walk on the sand when the waves retreat”
A rasping whisper taints the dark
There is nothing to see in the inky street
Not a shadow, not a spark

“Walk on the sand where the waves retreat
Find the one whose voice is true
Bring me the blood of the sweetest meat
Bring me her song of blue . . .”

Then the voice is sucked into stillness
Has he entered a pack to betray?
He feels a gist quaver of illness
The covenant bag has been taken away

A creeping shudder shakes him under
He puts his hands across his face
The wet air is split with thunder
And emptied of all grace


She sits on a log with her face to the sun
She is almost as still as a stone
Only fingers move, in hair undone
Plaiting feathers, flowers, bone

Her dress is a patchwork of rags and rhyme
Her hair is silk indigo lace
Perfectly balanced in both space and time
She dreams with a smile on her face


Post a Comment

<< Home