This Temple, This Poem
Going down through consonant and vowel to seagull bone of poem, into its filigree of shadowed lace where contrasts flicker confusingly, I fall before the Spartan foe of conscience. Forge me a saber to defeat defeat, Pericles. Hippocrene, slash darkness from my weed-choked soul, snared by its own illusions. I creep carefully into your arch of light, a spider weaving in your lofty vault, a spawn of the whorish flesh of man, and spotless soul of gods, starving for the bread of Gods, writing, writing...trail, now, you flightless creature, your palest fingers dipped in the marbled font of phrase, into its cage of glass and stone, cage of word and bone, cage of impotence. Moon of meaning rise and light from sound to sound, a nave to enter in. The ponderous blocks of thought for mind's Athenian walls, this slave will haul. Written January 12th, 2002 © on Jan 12 2002 07:49 AM PST, Carole Dudley 0 • 20 • 12
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"Going down through consonant and vowel..."