Jeffry Jensen
FALLEN METER
Labcoat changes are stirring on
the windside of the moon as
a restful morning flies by to
tell me that rings of dust will
take hold of the cranium which
is so soon cluttered, filled and
nearly framed as growing madness
lasts out a burlesque year.
I am set adrift and balancing on
tangled branches while undisturbed
lovers are nestled and in repair.
I remember what never happened as
a sulfur whisper rushes by as a winged sleeper.
I tremble during a waking dream
for time has passed with length and
toward a chronic afternoon still lingers.
A vagrant interest is hunted by dying
hands and black hole secrets are scratched
into dormant lampposts, yet long shadows
blot out these pleading etchings.
A poet mutters under breath and is
receptive to fallen meter like a sheep
to bloodless slaughter--no nearer truth, only rage.
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