He rises,
the old one with the youthful face,
as if from some depth, defying
those who have forgotten

his arms, my reach
longer than ever,
too strong, grasping far;
these fingers, so scarred

implying patterns
from which decent folk recoil.

And downward flow the hopes
we’ve nurtured like children,
running rivulets – sliding
from our greasy, leathered skin;

and downward run the motes
of passion, understanding,
red, red cinders burning wet,
flowing torrents – scalding

such perverse patterns,
such ugly forms of dreams and sin.

He rises,
defying those who were forgotten,
arms reaching far,
so scarred that decent folk recoil;

and we speak – one-voiced,
like children running,
flowing as if from some depth,
gambling with tarot cards:

“I see your thirty silvers,
now where’s my pound of flesh?”

And from my rotten mouth
he plucks the perfect tooth
with which to do the carving.

02/05/2011

Posted on 02/05/2011
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