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Tryst Poetry by Joseph Carcel |
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Tryst Poetry by Joseph Carcel |
| A Blind Mouse |
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Fever rings me rings me rings me my bursting passion jailed. I long for that one pure kiss to take me home, calm sinuous rivers rise. If I were a painter, I'd smear oils, reify soul's shatter to congeal again, tamed into peaceful reminiscence. Or if an old man, used, unuseful freight, I'd tell my single story, fugitive echo of an ancient war, battle flag of blue vein pulsing wave. Or if apothecary, steeped in ancient lore, I'd conjure simple titrate of patient cooling drops. And yet even so fractured, I walk now as if one. With a single motive of nod and smile I'm counterfeit, bereft of substance, fragment of shadow and thought. How can this invisible burn invisibility, swell into mouse or man...more than mirage, dance of heat's shimmering, pound insubstantial form to rib, flesh seared with the branding hammers that pound my heart to swell? Better be mouse blind, crawled between her thighs for nuzzle, warmth within crisp pubic straw, rising up with her, inside wet aromas, stupidly daring the silver shimmer of her husband's machete except what's within me, what I'm within, being blind, I'd stay oblivious to such symbols of rejection.
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