Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Was Doing Good

Was doing good in the thick-walled book-stacked
cylindrical (what other shape choose princesses
more beautiful the more unseen) high tower—

Was—The world murmured in under- & over-tones
through the thicker-than-brick walls but wouldn’t
stick fingers between authoritative spines so stiff

& solemn; was humming softly to my self’s ear,
rehearsing scenes of paper ends and paper means; was
trying to keep dry. But

you stepped swaggering through
a door I don’t remember building, & sat easily
in the frame that framed you well, so well, too well,

sunlight breaking from behind you,
threatening with barefaced emptyhanded force
to yellow all my Bright & Beauty. Was

good. Had names for every rancid
& alluring smell the wet stains on your tee-shirt
and all sour coupling all sweet sounds of your deep

throat sent sputtering, hardhitting forward
my nose; eyes full
of the watery blues and milky hues of you; all

ringing & pounding & shaking
the was-tall-once-straight walls of my secret citadel.
Am

twisted & back bent, prostrate with elbows
& knees mired in milky
rain-paper mush,

lumping the horizon, my broken shape alone
heaving in shadow—flat valley sour,
death’s aftertaste—