The Long Lure

The Long Lure

No,
not especially,
yet more than sometimes,

the strophe in me grows
heavy in the eyelids with
all the power of the chorus

-all that one voice trilling a social dissection.

Observer,
Notch-maker or novitiate;

an afternoon's drizzle before the storm,
a spent-ness of legs and quivering,
a waste of my deposits made carelessly
into the soft flames of her wilting flesh.

Yes,
particularly,
Ever since the falling out,

I am an amateur dripping in diffidence,
Fruitlessly fawning over an infinity's murmuring,

--the sky and the mandala's slow-roast and turning.

I am
symbiotic
inevitability;


dying and waltzing
where the one great


constancy is the
long lure of


wide open
spaces.