Transition Poem 22 @ Nov. 30, 2016

I am a spy in the house of cold. I nest. I tweak out the sounds a real person makes. I swallow, spit, and feed the chicks of another. How often I have felt the ice burrow, pin points of freeze upon my inner thigh, the palm of my hand. Weakness, and more. I pass. I pass through, and into, and no one knows. I am vellum, parched. I seek iridescence, but there is only the hyphen, the hajib, the gray fraying of the ends.All is fear, and it has color. It seems a sting in the eye, a knowledge come through ghosts, gaunt, ginger man. Smack, slap, the fellowship of the hit. Help is gorgeous, it’s elegance, the daffodil color at its center. I dream, always the same one. I am lost, and I am quickened by need: to find the cleansing; how do I chant its own copper sound?

There is hallelujah. Yes, somewhere inside my middle ear, the flame of it, flamingo colored, and I default, I trace in sand, plume into something else. I am ox and oyster, yes, between mouth and tongue I am. I throw my rage outward, it’s neon, lunatic, a kink in the mind. Oh buffer me, I am safe in the lichen, the needled woods. I walk, and walk, and walk, and seem to never turn back. Never.