Alchemisland

The oak and leather rocking chair belonging to the dead

Man the carer Sarah had managed, had considered friend

Which months three bottomless languished

Slammed madly, self damagingingly, a damned language.

The rocking bed I bled to rest inside me refreshes

A sensitive’s leatherstocking’d feet fed to fetters

In letters both o’er-blunt and digressive

Born for my fire to ingest.

In the thrice-locked chest of my ice-pocked mind

I wait trouserless.

A peeper’s vantage

Of something deeply unsanctioned in a scandalhouse

Nonetheless I tarry – none will remand, no redress demanded at death

I let her ebon relics, oily sweaty, derelict my restive sanctum

I am damned, and damn them.

I imagined suggestive meetings

Between you and me

Made unkeepable plans

During the wolf’s sleep.

Your reaping hands;

Torn apart bed

Ribbons left

Of high count thread.