On the Banks of the Sad River

The sun was cold though bright
and the air stung our lungs like poisoned glitter
in an early morning fugue
of confusion and dreariness.

The world was a bitter freezing nickel,
dropped on the brittle winter ground
the world lay there, the world lay there
glinting balefully
my arms were tender, dry, tiny matchsticks battering futilely against
this icicle morning air
oxygen arrowing into our bodies

exploding there, in errant crystal patterns
as though shot from a gun

At this moment I heard your voice and I turned to you where you dwell
inside my chest

It was at this frigid moment that I heard you
and the wires inside me tightened
and I felt my bobbing puppet head speed up
its rhythm and begin a dance
almost obscene in its gyrations
my hands trembled as I sought to contain you inside my ribs

I pressed my ineffectual digits against the outer stillness of my jacket
and held you there,
wearily quelling the madness within--I am small
often you overtake me
it is at these times that I chase phantom orbs out into the snow
that I envision the thin crust of ice over the sea forming in winter
(forming in winter)

bravely I attempt your continuing imprisonment
but usually I'm vanquished by the power
of your voice,
the muted dominance
of the demons in your hands

you make me banal, dissipated
when your voice begins winding its inappropriate way
in a snakelike fashion
in a snakelike fashion
along the arteries of my body and through
the great, gaping aorta that sends my blood out to fight every few seconds
my blood out to fight every few seconds
I grow faint, and wide-eyed...