wooden moon

I'm a hundred people one of whom 

Breaks your bed and bends you

Like a rubber dolly 

When you're there not there 

heart laid bare 

As a million cat atoms 

Float in space 

When you're not there we 

Are more imaginative of course we

Are more predatory and more 

More gentlemanly and more ravenous, taunting, 

rapacious and insatiable 

In between bouts of evanescent torpor and languid acquiescence 

That is a typical projection and antithesis which 
inspite of all 
as John Keats said 
is capable of inverting itself between being and dreaming 
between presence and invisibility 

Between hearing and bleating 

Between concession rejection and common or garden indivisibility 

And the power of the image of your wet pants and the thought of your skin and the desire to break you

Like the wind 

Glows through me

Like a baby Jesus yet 

I am a hundred people in-between these lightning bolts of autumn 

Which destroy us like a seed

I am legion 

I am the weed 

Flaying in her cornfield 

I am the stone gathering her animosity 

I am the lid

She is the ingredient 

I am the cauldron 

She is the heat 

She is the wax seal 

The wanton drip of concealment 

The force which drives me to the pencil 

The course which taps my doom

The least resistance to the way of the devil 

the witch who fly's 

my wooden moon. 

2017