I can’t imagine it since the arson.
I look—rubbled church, melted tiffany
glass, the whole block gone, the Mississippi
high this season, the rice paper parson
retired in the town’s senior garrison.
I watch it frayed by the lithophane
of hoarfrost, dim lamps outside the orphaned
shops, pull up my quilt, making a parcel
to mail to my dream selves (hemophiliac
boy who hates rain, maid on a ship mast,
fox running on the freeway). How it hurts
to hope they will fight over the mail key.
Please seers, insure the tiffany glass—
as we share a view of what is certain.
When you pulled your hair from your brush, you tossed it
out the upstairs window, “for birds,” you said. While
groping through the clematis vine, I felt no
arrow or echo.
I wrote this while reading Edgar Allan Poe's "ThePoetic Principle"... "The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness—this struggle, on the part of souls fittingly constituted—has given to the world all that which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to understand and to feel as poetic."