J A C K E T # 5 |
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Missing in Action (a)
In prurient muddles of life
We make prudish puddles.
And prudish puddles run-off, run.
Run down the alley not too far
From my home, home in the valley
On the far hills of the shadow
That dwells still after torrential
Thaw of my life's blood of strife-free
No prurience, no foul. Play words
As you will
The rapture does not quite heal
The rasp of her voiced concern
Was at odds
With the melancholy
Wings of lithe
Talking to my body. It talks back.
The weight of breath is this that
The skein of
The congesting stresses of
The custodial confines of fine promises
The "special place where bricks or colored threads are handled"
The choked torment and joy
Speaking to life. It talks back.
Artwork by Thomas Bell
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