Dancing Where the Tile Caught
Fire
Jason Wilkinson
They sought us
among a chasm of lampposts
breaching the pale thicket
sinews fled in time there
were storied glances,
paper turrets motionless ecstasy forever
tangible pneumatic eidolon censers
misspelled halberds of smoke
expiring in a long, lonesome train
Deceiving the muse Her tangled thread writhing between the toes of a bare
foot
lifts grey pearl scented the weightlessness I fancy
that while you steer
the unlacquered chant,
faraway bells
teaming in their hollow
chorus we
breathe plumes of maudlin fame
Through a beach chair her shoestring gems washed
wavelets of spent chloroform
barbs honed into a derisive smile
plywood stapled frames curl against the wind
Her hair a daft copse of impossible heather
By vague portents made reckless
hale, scribbled men
apoplectically chasing those
trellised bowers that
flexure beyond hills
like a series of painted
on fabric globes dancing
where the tile caught fire
Bullets in the snow
yet for all of our
tergiversation that measured
paucity of worn things,
the calenture remains fixed and
misanthropically driven.
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