I don’t hold
My breath anymore,
Don’t check the door for death.
My stoop is sore, my hope is cold;
Only so much warmth one can gather
From an ember-hearth less-glowing old.
It’s a reach to remember
All the heart-bold gambles
Or late-night, smoky-eyed rambles;
But I’ve not, just yet,
The squat-rights sold.
While in shoddy shambles,
And ‘neath a droop-pitch of holes,
The house still-strongly stands
‘Spite the rock of rigamaroles.
Tenancy here is plenty-hard
And on no map markedly starred,
But my residence is written evidence
On a postcard of peonies in the box.
Come to me, yet less to me
Than to the ‘marish socks
It knocks off my trepidatious feet.
Damn dusky Dickinson,
Though, wholeheartedly, I love her stuff;
She hurt enough for all of us.
She spanks me for self-pity even now,
Her out-of-tune ditty
The sacred cow of delineated disaster,
Not at all the playsome lark.
Even so-accustomed to the dark,
I sober a somber smile
For the briar-scrimmaged mile
Duty-traipsed by the postmaster
To bring me an image of beauty wild
That’s not only possible,
But as probable as rain on yellow grass—
Past-happy to see it, no doubt;
I just needed my head completely out
Of my quite unbeautiful ass.
Poetry: Shapes In The Clouds