Aporia Impasse I

A Poem

Aporia Impasse I

In ecstasy of itch,
The skin will rip;
Our houseplants each have died,
The dog is dead and dried;
At the window of forbidden knowledge,
I have whistled a stillborn tune;
The mountaintops have shaken,
Sloughed off the outer rock;
A crevice in an old man’s face,
Has buried hundreds of the little ones;
Snuffed like a melted candle,
The judge has spilled upon the law;
Some men of feathers shed their lies,
And fled their skin in sacrifice;
But upon an ebony night,
The crimson gristle speaks from shallow graves;
The center of the world cannot swallow all the blood,
Like a high tide upon a sorry raft,
The reaper drowns.

And with a word the world is rolled,
The we might see,
All that glitters is not gold.

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