smakkabagms:

the fairies no longer visit,

empty winds have ground the 

river to a halt

dreams churn like crude stones

among the bones of so many orchards

rue, now lipped to my wrist which

dangles a pale bone and withers

regret, my body

unfolded soft and drunk with silence,

consumed by the leech asleep beneath

my ribs           and somewhere, blunt

weapon 

the crushing failure of words, the sea 

a blue membrane of something secret 

and forgotten 

it is a chamber bloodied with the self,

the soul, broken instrument, fueled

by the illness of longing

what names do I call? Elektra, Kassandra,

the poor, embittered Helen

each garden I have loved but have never seen,

each fountain that will pass as my life passes,

and how one must slump

and stumble to guess at death’s constancy

so the willow paints its dark, whispy fingers

against the breadloaf of a heart, crushed

and repentant 

if only to glimpse, for a moment, the prayer

of between-world mist, fertile

and full with strangeness

When read out loud, wow; wow; … wow