Trigger Warning
This poem is dedicated to the last cut cord of wood.
To the hobgoblins behind insomnia’s pressboard paneling.
To the bloodless holes inside my hands
and unswerving nightlife of dreams and nightmares.
To the amethyst heart and Cretaceous Period.
This poem is for you, the stranger, the strange, the estranged,
summer’s sandcastles washed away, youth throttled,
the demon drink let loose from its cracked carafe.
A product of the many for the few,
this poem was written underwater in the rush of days,
mendicant August affording little truck with patience.
This poem is a dog barking and the quiet of an Etruscan tomb.
This poem is because of Helen, and despite her,
that honeyed flirt come back like an obscured Lazarus.
Like Gorgon’s daughter combing the snakes out of her hair.
Who turns back toward the Underworld, without rescue.
A crow now. A pillar of salt in a desert.