The Eclipse

 

Day Three

You will always have me picked apart,

The whole of me crazed and rickety.

A stone-still, dead reticence

Rattles in the void of you.

Scarce better than a cemetery.

 

Of course, I'm an uninformed fool,

For I silence the living; ever your mortal thrall.

Without even knowing, I've begun

To lay down a bed from the bones of you.

My eyes are filled with nothing else.

 

Cannonballing, shrapnel smile,

The quixotic savant. I belly flop

The iron turn of your indifference.

Dashing light, a tumult of shards

Among the glass-quiet of your palms.

 

This is a comedy of dirt

Crowding our mouths. You, the beset,

Sullen as a saint, and as pretty.

While I starve in a lupine gully.

The blue notes of your refrain are arranged

 

Still at my feet. Like you'd have them make sense.

It would take but a brush of bee velvet

To create such a ruin.

Days, I fluster in the wilderness

Of your echo, face full to the rain,

 

Losing myself in malchite rivers, bleeding colour.

The moon wanes, like your eye's eclipse.

Our territory divorced by its waxy light.

And still I am numb to the truth of your stillness

On some unseen continent.

 

A sort-of opposite of Sylvia Plath's The Colossus