O how they pass over you
like you were ghost.
Even before death rendered you lethal--
a bludgeon to their assumptions.
We eat to much too soon
a gurgling stronghold of teeth
to the teat--
life takes for granted
its own fecund abundance;
a mother unobservant, milk-drowning
us, the hungriest in the litter.
These reading crowd grows hungry
-- unaware--
saved by lesser appetites.
Whetted ever only
by the full of a sometimes moon,
an illicit quiet. A secret realm,
we hang our hats by its fatal door.
It is this precariousness, this glut,
this, we chose,
the drowning house,
the cliff,
the beautiful reluctance.

01/06/2013

Author's Note: To Sylvia

Posted on 01/06/2013
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