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quite skittish,
This summer of lies and longing cling to me
like a sunless quilt
and I absorb its paleness with the diligence of a prune
underneath these skirts are a wetness
a catapult of tears waiting to be cannoned
like the arrow Sylvia mentioned in 1963
when there was no planned season for madness, no reason for sin
and I with my cape, my shield and my lust for words
battling demons as if verse were a maiden
my pen, with the stolen initials
morphing paper into a beautiful pastel house
where only the drapes hang clean and
everything else hovers over like a big red stain
yet I
with my hoofed feet, protector of everything word
sit alone, hooded from the sun
curled into a big brown lump
like a fetus
fresh out of a womb
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