Spleen

The spring and I are strangers now,

extending hungry glances 

through fat green stems and

the blush of fallen berries—

those beloved friends 

of the pilgrim’s foot.

More and more I slip into the soil

to read the pages of rock. 

Retreating to the muddy infinite,

I spy the fleshy leviathan, 

earthworm tonguing a local seed,

speaking too slow and old.

I press a finger to

this empty parenthetical of skull.

My hand once thirsted for a pen,

now, my mimicry of earth things is exhausted.

To hold again

the high pearls of the night, 

budding from a handsome book 

who once erected my clumsy head

and took his nature in my hands.

The golden ghost rises over river silt,

is strange and shines in higher hospitality.

I lean back to receive her glowing lips,

that she might breath me.

Though here she comes again,

among the tender flowers to say,

spring forth.

I would make a friend of this mind,

And again draw nectar from its halo,

now dulled of new revolution by

my sweet tooth for memory—

here, I write letters to the sun.

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