Seeing The Singing

Seeing the singing

Singly something slides
Some tumbler clicking inside
Fingers twitching, feeling the picking

Designs surface for air
Old vomit burst forth from the blowhole
Figures and diagrams fade from
Old red to new blue

Syringes tapped and flicked
Sprig, squirt, the fingers cradle
as the thumb braces in the plunger’s ring

Let there ever be moments astride
before and after
the demarcation of dream and realization
“we used to speak of it, and now rely on it”

Adjustable adjusting,
such grace.

There won’t be fine flowers in her hair
But her dark eyes will be mine
To be carried in my pocket
Like a gory locket
So that I may stare and stare
evermore in the infinite beautiful black of the
raven’s wing

My sweet Poeish girl.