for too long.
Eluded me like stacked characters,
or double consonants.
It’s been muted—no seethe
to warrant a word, no terrible moor
to plunder, no need for cheek to floor—
rather, no need to rise from floor
to spill the ink, to sound the bell.
It has been hermited; hoarding
its stores, seeing only itself
in the long, dying light
of summer’s end. At night,
it roams, searching for a stranger’s
inexplicable step, a little death,
a tempest to corolla the pupils.
My language is languishing; it looks
after me with the angry eyes of one
whose food is withheld. It begs
for meat on which to bite,
for battle cries, for cross purposes
deliciously, perpetually at odds.
"Climbing a Web", Denny Marshall
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