the monsters slip into the other room
By Ric on December 25, 2006 in Myth, Psychology, Scanner Art, poetry
on the high blue hill
cold alone: this
wind carries
no music
houses empty
her skin so
white
wrapped in scarves
wool & black
leather
& she says the monsters
are quiet now as if
on the other side
a man would
strike a match
close a door
& first
there is the water
flowing down
the Ganges
would we take a photograph
hold it against our own
death sheath a light
of the copper
coil
against
the crisp
leaves of winter
here is my only hand
its rivers clear of clouds
she reads of Freud’s infidelities
of the squid on the hook
of the cancer that
will take
another man
throws a match
on paper closes the door
tenderness & mercy
like old women
thick with
the semen of
monsters &
what we
endure
© 2006 r Lance W’ms December 25 the blue of winter: the blood red center of what is taken
