Turncoat

Sitting in the spendthrift dark         lilting pennies away,         deciphering fate ... .         The bed, a warm reach past         the pillow         like personal mortality in the         incest breath of life.         Warm stuff of dreams -         the calender with its days mesh &         march like soldiers         dearly departed         (cindered and bludgeoned)         or the old sea-faring chest         where all men are sailors         past light's corner.         Sturdy trudgeons,         clock bursts thru the room         mindful of time and aching,         decaying things.         Hallow's Eve in movements of the curtains -         a remembered Rembrandt,         self-portrait of the old man         standing alone in a clammy room,         idling the seconds, with drab         browns and grays;         that sea-faring chest, again, speaking         of depleted journeys.         Mystic and occult moods,         worlds caught in a single glance         off the wall paper standing abreast         the lamp         and the mirror, back from         the pace of a single thought.