05
Nov
10

The Fifth, As Though


       What's in and of itself all she's desired?
       What's been the only interest of her prayer?
       The hole ahead's conspicuous, out there
       beyond her reach, past innocence expired
       some years ago.  What's urgently admired,
       demanded of her next life's nom de guerre
       tattooed on bone.  Behind in disrepair
       lie gods she once believed her own, expired.

       "You're good at this," she's told, "You've got the gift.
       It's as if you were sent for nothing but."
       She waits until they're quiet, but then swift
       as death might do, she slides up the skirted lift,
       releasing all her breath.  She makes the cut
       straight through her prism's most inverted shift.

       Above, behind her, trap doors slam, lock shut
       in place. Of all her choices, none unbend.
       Releasing all her breath, she makes the cut

       against the grain, loops through the other end
       of injuries that clench that fertile fist
       in place of all her choices.  None unbend

       as easily as bone shooting her wrist
       that rush she knows, that rush she sings, that rush
       of injuries, that clench, that fertile fist

       of word on skin in light for blood on hush.
       Is nothing else so fit as meant to be
       that rush? She knows that rush. She sings that rush

       and listens to herself, "What had been me
       is nothing else, so fit as meant to be."
       As death might do, she slides up the skirted lift
       straight through her prism's most inverted shift.

       Where her fugitive bandit'd been sleeping was still damp
       and holding its warmth, turning in a night-exerted shift.

       What her shrink-wrapped engine'd felt coming on strong
       unfolded paper dreams banking off a gear-concerted shift.

       When her fund-rasing tailor'd been found facefirst outdone
       by the playful tease of a random keyboard-flirted shift.

       Whichever her abandoned ghost'd taken off her old jeans
       to join her in bed, taking turns next up reasserted shift.

       Shadow weaver, look how familiar your midnight form's grown!
       Broken clouds bleed light
              — moon collapses to its own
                     red-alerted shift.

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formal attire

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