Curiosities
Casually the Virgilian busts
stare conclusion down as though
at the tip of a sailing ship -

a ship
near the port
pardons our eyeballs
for our sins

to see
sights
we should
not.

The heart is a curiosity;
a nutmeg
dull swollen
ebb
on the tip of
your fingers

it keeps
the words at
bay sometimes.

The cabinets
are full of drum
beats, a wailing
bagpipe I once
danced to in a haze
of deep county spirit
with hair that has since
fallen out of my scalp
braided down my
back in a tangle
you once plowed your
hands through, or legs
dangling over chairs

curiously
stared
at.

The Anglican sundry
leaves us mute
and clouded; leaves
us lonely though
the trees bloom
into masks in summer-
time when weather hides
you just as easily as
it might shun you in
the colder months.

Its curious that I don't remember
the empty streets at dawn
when the sky is cobalt
and bent on half moonlit
eyelashes, half dawn roundabout
lips caked with something
foreign -

a strange taste
to bite down upon,

a strange
mood is curdled,
like dogs sleeping
on the lawn.