Unfinished
What a strange mood's looked me up
as if I had stared too long into the pond
of a moonstone and by its chilly light read
by night while the heater hummed
some overlong epic of a lady and a knight
quite to completion, as the hours fled,
sharing only with the cat my rumply bed.
Goldengreen flecks dance before my eyes
glancing off the slightly curvilinear crust of the
earth; vision flings itself coldly spaceward;
trajectories skip from its vertices
past asteroids leaded, brushed and ignored
by the fiery tails of comets you couldn't hope
to avoid. There on a stage, I
grasping and tragic, am doomed, spat-clad
Gatsby veering to gloomy Rodenka among
many things, or savagely-stricken Eurydice
at the crossroads of her undoing
tired, in the end, of songs, jaw attractively
set, jumping rope in the instant twilight, wrong
ly thinking she's supposed to meet Ulysses.
What do you mean, swarms of dreams
beside me on the floor? Will you come again?
No. Off, then, already, don't lean on them.
Look: out of my lies, and sighs and extra reams
of rainbow I have knit a kind of jerkin,
a clingy danskin, with a single wing,
a will-of-the-wisp, and mean to wear it well.
poem by Morgan Michaels
Added by Poetry Lover
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