Saturday, November 30, 2013

AMY BETH GOLDEN

It is not that ruminating child
you purport to occupy
the entices the abject
carnivals of lethargy
seething like wayfarers
in my ocean spine

Your furnace stipulates
coarse packets of winter brine
A message follows:

Gazing your heart
returns and is burgeoned
with tallow  .   A window reclines
content with silver
Talismans of pine
        endeavor to harness your mirror

They cannot

I am ocean-eyed and river
carried                             You are
raven haired festooned
with miracles
Talons emerge from the sky.