14 August 2010

Chaser

Chaser 8/15

Was literature never enough – it seemed like a rib removed
Sitting in plain sight on the top shelf
            – was it keeping its dust well?

Bones become air-filled as they age
Lighter and lighter they become kindling

In your room – late at night – watching this part of you
It never seemed important enough to keep inside

You scratch up the walls trying to locate a femur of emotion

Does the formaldehyde smell of the funeral home lock night terror
A jarred finger-bone – a puce of some dead saint even
            – do these things make you more?

I know that you wanted to be a serious writer – your face tells
That you thought it would be romantic and pious

Romantic piety looks like shimmering frustration
            – how could you know that?