Lustre

Lustre

The great tickle of interiority fixing the view

As contemplation fixes nothing,

A good rest, a meal and some sleep,

Such are the fixes of humility and the

rails of air in the terrible sand.

Who broke this rut of the old trail,

Left a broken moccasin.

Who buries the dead by the river

Where the sand shifts,

Where the band and the bridge will be.

A broken toy where the bugs, who live but three days,

Morph, mate and die.

Transformation is done by generations.

There is no one man and woman is as the particular girl,

Unsure, immortalized, abused as to her will

and shaded nature.

Great glass ball on the table,

We touch your subtle electricity with our finger tip and find puzzles

and open ends.

For some few dollars more, a grey, greasy head, missing teeth

Like a stolen fetus lassoes the love of onlookers

With umbilical surety and measured insistence that the next

can know the ground of the former and make it right.

For such gnawing and yawning, the trip is on,

Mescalito has invited his cousins of light to the womb.

Halos of Giotto’s mother or a cave tapestry in the nave

With ink dyes from midnight blooms and frightful magic of

Juno and Cupid and the arrows of Putti

and the wet rings around the moon

As the potions in our eyes for love and

Rash action fired in a deep pit for a long time.

Such is her little pill,

Sadly barbiturate, benzodiazepine, sulphur, graphite, so common and so strange

To sit in the cafe with things.

Lovers over the table with utensils and probes as a glance sharp

As a fork revealing what had been solid ground to be many cells

Infolded as cancer, numb as coal or

Glowing with her wishes on Spring air and the waiter’s boutonniere and

Effervescence released from an open bottle,

Gassed to our scene as the audience stills its hope,

For all anticipate tragedy.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures