Marcel in Limbo
Leveled off ladders,
twisted cat-tails, willows
pawing at the otherwise
secular ground;

cackling baby mouse
scurrying across car lanes
during rush hour,
metamorphoses unyielding,
subliminal messages written
from the inbred lines on your
palm. The way a song tastes
after you get sick of it. The way
you lay lazily across my chest,
one hand on my cheek while
falling asleep, learning to breathe
symbiotically.

Apartments over garages;
pledges of undying capitulation
and mirth; to have clung and needed
those spritely howls billowing up to the
night like chimney smoke though the
house is always cold; falling asleep
on the carpet, in a sleeping bag, before
a fire place, before a set of dresser drawers
stuffed fuller then bellies at mealtimes.

Skylarking Neanderthals – I'm really a gorilla,
just wearing her female mask today, just to affirm
that God doesn't exist today, though vows
over a gabled roof were more like lace then
words and while Isolde stands nude, skin cracking
into veins in the corner of my dark room, pointing
jealously -

Marcel puts his hand over my eyes,
bids me to sleep.