In My Spiel and Storied Telling

...dead mice thus far do gnaw, splintered mirrors neck and rubber yet with scant regret. Ropes both for hanging and climbing, good grief, bad love, honey-do-dew in a salty brew. In my closet, pockets unpacking pockets, string bags under closed eyes, eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and kitchen towels. Owls as mute as hollow urns turn to cry their mournful why’s. One horror story lives forever much chewed over by skeletal moths and stray cats. The edge of IF, the pots of peeled moonlight guttering in a midsummer dunk, these glad me not, yet are kept like the pickled smiles of saucy women. In my book of lies there are truths still worth distorting, times killed by a compulsive retelling, fields plowed over too long where the dead are uncovered only to dance again on the graves of long reclining martyrs. The drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished, works slackened and sent unfixed back to the depths from which they came. The unclaimed, reclaimed and the unnamable named. Yet here I am, the one person, this golden spark in a potash smutter, still blinking my way, a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak, while majestic wings hover to grab up my rash stash of self, and I say: yes let them yes come, and god help those wings.