After Reading the Master, I Stay Inside
by Tim Mayo
If the divine has lost its capital D,
There is something else
that goes beyond it,
curls squirmy and warm,
forms a loving snake deep in my intestines
and still consumes.
The page I type this poem on has no substance.
like a square moon I click up
onto a blue screen.
So when the invisible turbulence
blows through the trees outside,
sending the green fetters of their limbs
flurrying through the real,
will this screen shake?
My vision of poetry blur?
this moon tumble down,
turn trapezoid––its angles no longer
I dream of Chinese lanterns I will never see,
opaque glow signifying ancient mysteries,
each paper form
hiding its precarious fire,
and beneath them all,
a shadow mimes a song.
Its dark, drunken arms gesticulate
all the melodious vowels to words
I have yet to form.
I purse my lips like a small silver coin, but they emit
neither song nor whistle.
There is no Emperor to keep awake.