The Esoteric from Issue 18
Unable to move the muse with narcotic
sweet talk, he muscles in on someone’s grief.
He’s on the airglow edge
of his stepping-stone like a ghost
puppet stealing light from the real
world. With a wild guess
for spine, a face half-finished
on the blind lithographer’s desk.
Canticle. Cleft song & heart riff
out of another’s wet mouth,
effigy’s bravado & prologue.
He fingers the heirloom
Bible with rows of x-ed out names
& dried roses between yellow pages,
searching for an idiom
based on the color of his eyes.