Wednesday, April 26, 2006


a foundling sang within the dunes, and i stuttered
in his grey-blue eyes, tossing castanets aside
buying seasalt from the hermit crabs, to shimmer

on my lips, bribing buttery flies to pay some small
amount of homage, whispering gris-gris ballads poorly
harmonized, to bewitch and magick what days have

wrought, have meddled in my enchantment, and i
bartered with the pawnwomen to redeem one hour,
purchased hungrily when i thought them surfeit,

but may this foundling be a false concoction
a lure of glamours, of capricious entrapments
and i a foolish mockery of comedies never staged

but also may the sun draw into darkness, and the moon
despaired be swallowed by aged and anguished locust
and sirens in their clamor take my longing to their nest

for though my samba spins a lonely pirouette, i still taste
the fantasy spun by wailing of the gulls, and bend before
young winter's thievery, like every young and supple

willow, so dissembles day's last failure, so beglimmers
what abject hope yet clothes me, and i stray into these
sand locked tunnels, tossing my falsettos one more time


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