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.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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