T. Rex terrarium
[ poetry - july 12 ]
In the dark his fingers find the breasts of an animal, and it offers up a weeping nipple to the puckered lips in his palms. For a moment there I thought of bringing you down as would a beast in the wilderness... but, Truth, I am too fugitive, a king on a throne of regret.
The day has come and we’re not prepared. We swore we would be... or at least, I did.
Lord... can you hear me? I have discovered that I am a copy of myself... and there was never an original.
The Lord laughs, saying “Like money... the order of sorcery.”
The third face in the wall protrudes its tongue. Thrashing like a bag of kittens in a pond. The fourth face, in the door downstairs, is speaking of maladies... day after day the same awakening... data-storms... bulbs flashing in the garden... skeletons... jack-boots.
Nothing in her bag but a hammer and tobacco. Fenced in by her and a row of prams at welfare. In her eyes, uncrossed bridges sent asunder... burned by red tape, and vanity.
Lucky... I found enough money in the gutter to get drunk this afternoon. I saw things in terminals said to be concealed. The stony face of accusation staring back at me. The sacramental order. A relief in landscape. Silos like collapsed photographs. Abandoned boulevards where reeds and refuse fill the fountains.
The hum of blue machines at the foundry.
I bet you had some miniature T. Rexes in a terrarium when a kid, and a magic hat filled with candy forever...