Aug 272011
 

"Capacious imagination's faces fete my famishing,
take tea from a voice, a ghostly pour of steam
rising and soliloquizing, misting the thirsty features
drowned in their own pool of too-deep selfknowing.
Unhandsome Hawthorne, with a vibrant lie
and victorian necktie, I guess my susurrations linger
over trashed vowels, marked harmonies giving
my fine Irene her double edge of softness;
how, sometimes, the right face can mean salvation!
Howled down at the Imperial for my tea-tragedy last night,
too cinnamon-delicate for the masses' meat,
I know how our bodies will meld before our minds vanish....
Driving like a marathoner out of London into the foggy future,
the lifted Dover cliffs swelling the meridian
and loving my new auto's purring reach into the nebulous,
I watch for constellations past the turning wheel while
the shaky rearview mirror gives an intruding look."

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