If at the wrist my hands I clip
(reaching still to grasp at
you),
fold them together,
morning glories struck
by too much sun
or night,
place them in a mailbox
by some damned nostalgic lane;
If with a pliers I crush and twist
my voicebox (calling out your name),
If (ah!
crystal-sizzle,
sliding down)
molten glass I pour
into my ears;
If I with railroad spikes impale
my eyes;
If then in darkness I recline,
a white-hot angel
on a cloud of pain,
and strum my own dull harp of pride;
Master! will you then deign to give
one lucent, darkness-piercing kiss,
that I might from child-crushing lips
taste pleasure’s final nectar?
This article appears in 05-01-2015.
