Blues Motet

Pushing up that final bedroom window, peering out,
why do we cling tenaciously to life?
Beyond a corset of emerald, meteors gutter
into falling alphabets like sickled blooms,
leaflets of the last days.

Speck on the earthís curve, Leviathan eye,
a salt-cobbled beast rises from the crystal sea,
suckling oyster hedges,
a waterdragon hulking in surf.

Phone cables whip in a typhoon of scrolls
as whales beach their fables.
Loosed in lamentation,
no poet doesn't matter anymore.
Splintered tales of a sailor's booty,
brass idols, sapphires, bassoons,
gilt bed frames, reel-to-reels,
cats and children tumble on glissando waves.

Donít that evening sun look lonesome going down?

All the world is a pouch of tobacco on a nightstand,
a woman genuflecting, brushing her hair in a mirror.
Sleep claims everything like fur on a phonograph,
a quill of thunderbolts and voices.
Dreaming thousands climb a vault of cord
as the sky-dome opens, a honeycomb.

Stars fall in a sackcloth sky like figs.
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