|Oct/Nov 2018 Poetry|
This heart drums hard with stipples at the edges.
Chambers resonate the rhythm section.
On the farthest nervous paths
through every station on the stem
hot homunculi rumba through this coma.
stampede a hippocampus.
Nostrils sniff that precious gas
with all its corrupt companions.
Throat like Arizona.
Air too cruel to summon
except by mental image
except by craving or conjuration
or begging to the call button
burning within or aching or cursing.
Worse could come of the attempt.
One might mistake commotion for comfort
or butter-slathered toast for hope.