THE EVENING DEEPENS INTO THE LEES OF ITS MORDANCY
The evening deepens into the lees of its mordancy.
The broken pines seem more tragic. The corpses in the cemetery
less lifelike. Spirits move over the face of the leaf littered grass
as if someone were throwing thousands of loveletters away in disgust.
The darkness is more threatening. You can feel the presence of the dead
slipping under the doors and the cracks in the windowsill
like smoke and cold wind and life threatening protestations
of undying love. Not a rumour of sound from the town.
The wind is holed up somewhere in a bar that doubles as a lair
knocking another one down for the obliterate illiterate night ahead.
Recite. Recite. Recite. The unlettered prophet was told
by the angel of light. I don’t recite so much as I let it write me
into the destiny scribbled on the lines of my forehead,
birds coming and going like musical notes on hydro line staves
with ivy treble clefs coiling around the pole like medical snakes.
Baby, I’m a caduceus. You be the dove above it all.
The silence pregnant with manifestation. The furnace
has stopped cracking its knuckles. The flanks
of the American flag above the real estate office downstairs
has stopped flexing its muscles at the command of the wind
and the horse whisperers are out in style trying to calm things down
to a ghastly serenity. The stillness is a bread knife
cocked diagonally on the white vinyl kitchen sink counter
like a sabre of the new moon sitting there the koan
of a blank but focused stare with an essential existential question to ask you
about whether you want to live or die by seppiku.
The mirrors are hiding their eyes. Someone’s in bed
bleeding to death because of a loveletter they’d just read
that said life was better off without you falling in love with it
all over again with the unbearable pain and joy
of having to leave it this way through a hole in the wall
they just painted over to sell the thralls to a new slumlord
from the underworld who keeps bragging about his dirty jewels
and excoriating the fools who are not dead enough yet to appreciate them.