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Moths white as ghosts among these hundreds cling
Small in the porchlight...   I am one of yours,
Doomed to a German song's stale metaphors,
The breastly thimble-rigger hums my wring.

I am your ghost, this pale ridiculous thing
Walks while you slump asleep; ouija than morse
Reaches me better; wide on Denmark's moors
I loiter, and when you slide your eyes I swing.

The billiard ball slammed in the kibitzer's mouth
Doctor nor dentist could relieve him of,
Injecting, chipping... too he clampt it harder...

Squalor and leech of curiosity's truth
Fork me this diamond meal to gag on Love,
Grinning with passion, your astonished martyr.


Submitted by Holt

Added: 1 Mar 2004 | Last Read: 27 May 2012 12:17 PM | Viewed: 2910 times

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