In Service of Flies

Fyodor waits inside the parlor

A fin of port slowly poured

Then

Deep voices are skillfully eased

The coy canter

Propositioned and the pace inaudible begins to rise

I sense a turn in horror

Menacing latitudes of innocent clouds

Eastwardly 

Though my ears know the clear report of distance

In thunder I stand unusually calm

I’ve discerned these clouds before I tell myself foolishly

These birds from sun that touch on high

Spared indenture over the care and hands ‘neath tide

Each one plies its own orphan

Swirling copiously

Naked and shimmed in poison

It is only moments till they bleed their crags

Moments till we know our crumbling stage

And two score the doors forever closed

Or so the zodiac goes

Fresh sons will die tonight

Their daughters and revolution

Slaughtered with the elders and

Each lost inside the bed of starry-eyed prophecy

But the time is still made young 

We but customed cod are locked inside our barrels

Set in route to hinge like spiritual catfish

And in the vinegar transit I cannot help but realize

Pour out the port and

Engage these climes alone

The parlor dark and the soul alive

Beyond the service of flies

Author's Note

WIP

Reviews

[Priscilla Sayers]

I can not help but feel the sorrow, the tension, behind the voice that drives this amazing piece....
As always I love the way you bring a flow, all your own, to the page. The old world tongue drips like sweet nectar for the hummingbird, whose wings beat into invisibility, as she hovers, sipping the offering of heart and soul. You are a cherished poet.