In My Spiel and Storied Telling

In my deaf and time-closeted pockets unpack pockets, string bags hang under the closed eyes of all-seeing watchers. Eulogies for the living are etched on wet lips and kitchen towels. Owls as mute as hollow urns turn to flute their mournful why, what, and who’s. The edge of IF, is most hard to see; ‘if’ is a lobster pot full of moonlight woven to waylay and trap the long drowned. Gutters coughing in a midnight summer these glad me not, yet are kept like the sly smiles of devilish women. In my book of lies there are truths still worth distorting, times killed by a compulsive retelling, fields plowed over too long where the dead are uncovered only to dance again on their own graves. The drunken gallimaufry of head-games left unfinished pace back and forth, yet here I am, the one person, still blinking my way through a black-light sky, while majestic wings hover over to grab me up; yes let them come, for all glad gods have wings.