The moon drags like an old stylus.
Earth sounds cackle –,
A dropped sparkler going out.
Dark guests afford my open door.
Blue stockinged Blake;
Kafka in word slippers.
How many titles have tumbled down
From the shelves!
How many mirrors are left to sack!
At least I can forget about reflections,
Am no longer
Afraid in looking back.
I put the midnight sun out to cool
By winter’s woodpile.
Call forth Phantasm’s cat.
Is that too tall an order…?
It sits, in the peach tree,
Tail flicking,
A silver mouse-like poet
Surreptitiously pocketed
Within the teeth. Ah – such
Ghoulish consternation.
The reminder
How fashion’s destined for us.