On The Banks Of The Sad River

The sun was cold though bright

and the air stung our lungs like poisoned glitter

in an early morning fugue

of confusion and dreariness.

The world was a bitter freezing nickel,

dropped on the brittle winter ground

the world lay there, the world lay there

glinting balefully

my arms were tender, dry, tiny matchsticks battering futilely against

this icicle morning air

oxygen arrowing into our bodies

exploding there, in errant crystal patterns

as though shot from a gun

At this moment I heard your voice and I turned to you where you dwell

inside my chest

It was at this frigid moment that I heard you

and the wires inside me tightened

and I felt my bobbing puppet head speed up

its rhythm and begin a dance

almost obscene in its gyrations

my hands trembled as I sought to contain you inside my ribs

I pressed my ineffectual digits against the outer stillness of my jacket

and held you there,

wearily quelling the madness within--I am small

often you overtake me

it is at these times that I chase phantom orbs out into the snow

that I envision the thin crust of ice over the sea forming in winter

(forming in winter)

bravely I attempt your continuing imprisonment

but usually I'm vanquished by the power

of your voice,

the muted dominance

of the demons in your hands

you make me banal, dissipated

when your voice begins winding its inappropriate way

in a snakelike fashion

in a snakelike fashion

along the arteries of my body and through

the great, gaping aorta that sends my blood out to fight every few seconds

my blood out to fight every few seconds

I grow faint, and wide-eyed...