Yet Untitled.

Morning:
Dawn lances my thoughts,
Like a boil. Returns me to
The World; a card laid impassive,
Flat on a press-wood table.
For a moment I am:
Gripped, as by
The teeth of a new-cut key, but
Moments later, pathos releases,
As a sword releases,
From stone. This is my flame
Stroked by superstitious hands.

She wears a face,
With every stitch of legend,
Is colored by a lingering
With dusk’s clattering peddler:
Equivocator, a spinner of
Long old yarns. Her shadow
Is hewn by starlight, its curved shape
Not unlike Arachne.

Winter has traded its place,
Between the frail clatter of bone-branches
The susurrus of dead-leaf divination,
A sigh of the vitreous sea.

Where have we been?
In shadow cloud cast,
Bent against December light.
Fed on straw and sawdust, on
Attenuated potency. A lens
Of distance to protect eyes -
Aeons downturned –
From blindness.


[I'm very malcontent concerning the linebreaks here.]