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Fool's Errand
I wonder after his black spectacles,
if I could recognize his phantom's scare
by his bandy left foot, something he'd wear:
constrictor turtlenecks, cowboy buckles
his trials decided by flayed knuckles
his tombstone eyes, the depth of night they bear.
I wonder at the factors of his fear
as I adorn him with cherry jewels.
Your bass breathes, haply, the contents of love;
it whispers to me my shadows' secrets,
but dark articles ingesting your name,
face-eating barnacles that smutch our flame.
I'll be glad —a pigeon may be a dove—
to sprinkle Shakespeare over your Poe's grunts.
Copyright ©
Trina Layne
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