While the third cocktail was working knife-like within
My secret passages, like a heart recessed in its alcove,
The old desk got me thinking about vows:
Monks to silence,
Cocktails to lies
And craftspeople to their art.
Up, too, from the dump and to the forefront of my mind
Came words sometime ago dismissed as unimaginative
Then strewn and locked in the second last drawer, for
Time their feathery-edged, card-sized beings to fade.
Not numb enough, I felt the stabs in my chest,
As those unfinished lines awakened Tom,
Whose doubt-filled voice rises to thwart
Both glimpse and grab at the golden fleece.
My heart flip-flopped in its little box
Acutely aware of the roused villain,
And how he also ruins reminiscing.
Us two knew well the pages before me,
All hand-filled with godawful verses,
Starving verses which consumed my mind
In their yen for an outstanding conclusion.
Yet one lives to grandstand above the sticks in my rite
As certainly as Boccaccio’s Decameron, And that
One notion climbs higher the higher the flames shoot,
Declining Fire’s nourishment to flourishing on Milk.
Tell it, please,
It would be wiser to connect with a freer creator,
One whose lines merge to form an intuitive whole,
One whose drawers vow to shut out all fears and do.