Eating from an imaginary spoon
Sensual as clay laced
with warm water,
hard as a window
and still the seeds are thrown
though I don’t know why – there is
too much earth and almost no sun,
there are slimy ponds that beasts and fowls
eliminate in – spotted with dead-fish-eyes
and not at all like heaven
There is a funeral in the fireplace but no one
connected enough to mourn the dead thing burning.
There are seven steps up and nine down, and indifferent
cruelty has murdered every other form of synchronicity –
I see four walls, but have only three;
I dream the supernatural and am faced
with pain in my teeth,
and on my hands, are wounds
that will not heal.
Under the willow tree I hide my mirror,
small enough to be mistaken for morning dew.
I look for a point of origin, something to explain
how and why
we all must see it through.
Copyright © 2008 by Allison Grayhurst