Thursday, March 25, 2010

THE TOAST

You see blood on the keyhole
at the side entrance to a person
within whom you live

Doubt turns you away
and gives the body's stigmata
time to heal

A gaunt face calls you back
the weighted chest lets you in
the party is going strong
suffering is out in the open

More and more you leave
words for those who can use them

On tiptoe you sneak past
the big room
- a stop that would elate you -
and climb the back stairs, 
dropping your coat with the others

Below, the doors to the big room's
balcony open over a spilling lawn
Someone has raised a glass
in your honor

You see into shadows
past the lit necessity
of sweating trees
where your restlessness labors

Your hand moves slightly,
an involuntary salute with intention
to make good on escape

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