International Rock-Flipping Day 2010
I lived like a hundred-legged king
in the faceprint of an idol
who followed my every move.
What drew me to that house made of twilight,
whose rooster swelled like an ingrown toenail
trapped between toe & shoe
& never flew?
With floor turned ceiling,
where would the weather vein?
What rod would rout the lightning root?
Unreal estate no bank would back,
underwritten only by undertakers,
each inch of space had been stolen from a grave.
From time to time, I caught
the musky scent of soured hope
& snuffled for Persephone
at the foot of the missing stairs.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Bridge to Nowhere
- Natural Faculties
- (Re-)Claiming the Body
- Ceiling snakes
- Train Song
- Surgery of the Absurd
- Notes toward a taxonomy of sadness
- Curriculum Vitae
- On Reading The Separate Rose by Pablo Neruda
- Song of the Millipede
- Autumn haibun
- Bread & Water
- Jersey Shore
- October dusk
- Goodnight moon
- The Starlings
- To the Child I Never Had
- Learn Harmonica Today
- Two-line haiku
- Sleeper Cell
- Magic Carpet
- When the Wind is Southerly
- Ground Beetle
- Étude for the World’s Smallest Violin
5 Replies to “Song of the Millipede”
I like this as much as anything I’ve read in a good while.
Thanks, Laura. I’m in debt to you for the loan of your rooster!
Ooh, I like that…
Thanks! I haven’t made up my mind about it yet, but that’s as it should be, I guess.