The Spirit is Near
Wrapped in personal pity, betrayer sphinx slinks
and eats; it privately shuffles our motivations.
I like the capability of my eyes, the way they
brighten the woman on the curb by the church.
She will burst alive in two minutes. You cannot
believe the wind last night. The things it sells.
The sun buffs the surface of technology across
our city of cracks and cataracts, which also
ignores the shoes rubbing my feet from their bones.
Enter some disease where the woman sells
her tears prior to civilization. That moment is now
upon the funeral pyre. In the crumblings and ramblings
of old men seated in tired t-shirts on the stoops
everlasting, they survey remainders of wars over-lived
and fat berries beyond the perimeter ripened
with blood brought back from the dust fields
by the worms underfoot and pregnant.
We make wine to toast the cross and tender liars.
Bleeding and bent, an alibi was one way
to go. Flesh torn holes charged with separation
anxiety, feeding. The emissions spiraled out
and up, leaky spirits glad for escape hatches.
Late at night, awakened in the breaches of context,
we want some sense of place. The day knocks in;
there is no hold here, its own stew of rapid fire
urgency. These papers must be sent and brew
the coffee quickly. Report before sundown.
Darkness calls in a jolt and still no setting sun
from heaven. The remote hotel on the edge of town
does not follow, does not keep your silent room
where a woman holds your heart to the light,
her smile lingering. She insists on a gun, sawed-off
for protection. The only way there is through the woods,
past your childhood home and a backdoor invincible.
You receive it. Hence, your most recent night,
sealed in an envelope on the bedside table, opening.
amy king is a persona vacuum who sometimes gets clogged, sometimes breathes easily. she doesn't know if there's a bag & where it's located. maybe she retains nothing. check the site amyking.org for more.