Tangle
October 12th, 2005
By Archived Story
But the dark night accomplishes more
The love mislaid like sabotage, like only passion can.
Ending significance, the moon winks on and
assumes the happy night, unaware.
The savage inky sky wrote treason
there, blending promise and sacrifice.
Woman is Mr. and Mrs.
Woman is Man, by default, tangled.
Man is a flat table, a suitcase, a nightstand
Man is Mr., abbreviated, abridged.
Of nothing unborn, their breasts like postage
stamps, clearly unwritten.
Knowledge forewarned, like children’s
cunning. Dad’s footsteps and knocking:
like slow poetry, spoken till the morning bleeds blue.
Mother bleeds because the moon watercolors the night.
The white ink milks a magic cast
future, fingers a longing prescribed.
Saboteurs untangled, the night star-spangled
the necessary firebrand, revolutionized,
penned in fluorescent combat ink, the sudden
economy of compromise; but the night accomplishes more.
