Based in the bayou. Launched from the levee. Leftovers are we. 


A Man of Many Hours

My master builds a fire 

Of wooden birds and crested waves

Of long hours spent in sawdust,

He makes puddles of heat and melted wax.

From my coarse words, he weaves a shroud

And places it upon his scar-split brow

To draw between himself and I 

A quiet curtain that might keep the splinters at bay.

My student stabs at turning pages,

out of which he pulls the string of reason

Measuring the distance between the beholder and the beheld 

that he will bridge once only I have gone to bed.

Like gentle Hades, counting seasons,

He pulls the chain from deep within the well 

and I, standing upon the oily moss 

Throw to him the bucket, that he might drink. 

My hero sweeps the crumbs and glass from carpet stains

And pulls the leaves from the choking drain,

With patient hands that conjure shapes from lifeless things,

And lull the cursed and restless animals to sleep. 

Am I foolish to believe 

In planets perched upon the edge of night, just so

That this, the person I have found from all the rest

Is all that stars and planets promise, and one more

From far beyond the fragile, rigid reason of man

That coldly whispers to the bones of my puppet

This one was cast of dust for you.

Liminal Love