The Game

The game of wanting
And wanting to wash yourself,
Your eyes, livid inside
'Open gestures of kindness'
'Public offers of help'
'Outward expressions of faith'
And the crowded personas
That scratch at your mask.

To bring yourself down in fits
To call out, find your feet, fall, then recall
The game of wanting to hold some poise
Tucked in your shirt for later.

Like peppercorn seed, fresh picked
From spectral midnight gardens,
Drips of boiled bromureide
Lidded inside
Tiny black-burned pots;
This: an open gesture of malevolence.
A mystic mother's murmuring
Of poisoned floral picture frames,
Of Drapes and dresses and wretched
Romances.

To watch the wake tenderly rise
From long-shaded afternoons
And a percolating childhood
Undrawn.

The game of wanting
And wanting to waste yourself,
Your I's, livid inside
'Open gutters of kindness'
'Public ablutions of help'
'Outward excretions of faith'
And the clammy personas
That melt from your mask.