SALON


The narrow frame of
midnight is the opening
the image
identical yet ghostly

is the signature
the monogram
of essence
not the thing itself

the reference
ends here
fool’s gold binds heaven
with the fine thread of

undreamt dreams
soon no doubt
to drop from the black heart
in front of you

author of a ruin
there is no answer for
born of impulse
solid as the eye’s flame

its one penance is the sodden
grief breathed by death
so much the worse for those
whose servitude

is vengeance I give my memories a shove
we are leaving
where was it that you said
the dog of scripture has returned to its vomit