04-02-2019, 01:30 PM
Deeds that Require Darkness
She stands over me while I sleep.
I know she does this each night.
It could be the pressure in the air
that alerts me, or her sharp
intake of breath.
I am in that same tired dream,
a gathering of clouds like a flock
of dark birds blotting the moon.
I can almost make out the tingling whisper
that tonight it will all end.
Vodka though a scentless an untraceable
serial killer still leaves behind clues:
first the point, then the tip,
the scale, then the bolster, the tang
from the juice and sugar of many lemon drops
lingers over my lips like an interrupted kiss,
a promise that I will not wake as I always wake
to the sour light of morning, to lift the knife once again
flat and bloodless and impotent
from my chest.
She stands over me while I sleep.
I know she does this each night.
It could be the pressure in the air
that alerts me, or her sharp
intake of breath.
I am in that same tired dream,
a gathering of clouds like a flock
of dark birds blotting the moon.
I can almost make out the tingling whisper
that tonight it will all end.
Vodka though a scentless an untraceable
serial killer still leaves behind clues:
first the point, then the tip,
the scale, then the bolster, the tang
from the juice and sugar of many lemon drops
lingers over my lips like an interrupted kiss,
a promise that I will not wake as I always wake
to the sour light of morning, to lift the knife once again
flat and bloodless and impotent
from my chest.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson