Poe – a medley

             I

 I read him with

toe in ear

and        tap

on

there.  Is

 

art – is not?

gratuitous

gore;

 

and eek ca-

daver?  Nor

lacks whole

feather, poor

 

bunny or

wife;

 

for a dear

fest

of contrast.

 

         II

 

Art I spy –

undeveloped eye:

unshut

and failing

in the dark.

 

I see a mind

in nailing

with a clock;

 

and it

will

stop.

 

III

 

But you return, you

corpse, in the moonlight;

in the gallows

of a cat’s throat.

 

It billows

– this mind –

with curtain

and sheet;

 

her sighs of

which

are weak.

 

And if I live:

you stale, Love,

in some bleak

ailment of the eye

 

– a film,

as blue as the breath

of morning dew –

 

and stare at me

from the livers

of lakes

 

or

penetrate

the dark.

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