The Demons
The newsprint blurs coyly.
The obituaries shift columns.
Salty fluid bites youÂ
the base of the spine
a rapid ascent
a geyser mean as mercury.
You Cry: Is this what I always was?
No fear, there is always an exit.
Where the carpet is most soiled,
where your friends are jammed together
cheeks grazing cheeks
throaty chuckles like tiny drums.
A woman with your name
is counting sea-otters.
Above, the sun swerves too close.
It is not the pacific, there white sands.
It is another time: the waters of the Gulf
lap idly, idly.
If you betray the radiance of your being,
who will correct you?
There is no one else.
Temperatures melt, languid snows sigh,
the footprints of the dead are pressed down
in next springÂs mud,
where you must walk.
Fearing demons you provoke them.
They fly in at all doors and windows, unbidden.
And the air is a scramble!Âblinding, like chaff.
Better to welcome them:
face to face, one you remains human.
Your weight balances the weight of those terrible limbs
eager to spring yours.
--------------------------------
Thanks.
~Sincerely
Chris