… compel us.

By J. K. McDowell

June 2014

 

Everyday extraordinary – today you woke.

Elsewhere, yet another dead poet is counted.

These crisscross days, they sip and slice in crazy ways.

 

What is all this poetry? A salve to explore

Image and feeling or a bit of peppermint

Poorly wrapped and stale in the lingerie drawer?

 

Her madness invited an endearing sense of dread.

There are many trap doors that save and succor us.

Can your careful dance steps contain this despair?

 

The partial results of numerous failed

Experiments. I suppose it is a grave error to confuse

The Books of The Dead: Tibetan, Egyptian, Celtic.

 

I remember the wolves there in the London Zoo.

We shared some delicious words and succulent snacks.

Later, we were howling and the crowds were screaming.

 

The waltz intended and a trip extended.

She falls, never lands, floating in ecstasy.

When love pales, the hungers of poetry compel us.

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