“O”

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August swigged its four weeks out of my cup
folded its tongue and left me here
so dry and unaccomplished
just as I was
in the arms of July

“But how have you been”
is a question
a question that when I rhyme
tinkers
in the oval of every “O”
that does not start your name

Has the musk of my un
opened letters made you want to chain
smoke at all? as cancer
do I clot your blood
worry your wife
pull you toward the shrinking axis
of my lust
at all?

A wishful stain of misery on the starch of your arrogance
How low can I stoop?
ponders my spine
sore for the sting of your nail

Here the year’s cheek has a blush of orange
they say Fall is come
leaves and resolutions
are on that edge
the one that only blossoms
away from the sun, close to the ground
where dreams of you sprout to frolic like devils
tipsy on my resolve
where the eyes of inaccessible sleep twinkles
dew
on freshly varnished coffins
where the preacher roars about the horror
“O the funk of six feet under!”
and I can’t help but wonder…

Is your hair still so musical
to hum dark ruffles
between the cleft of my fingers?
does the blue of my fondness
ever yolk
in whites of your collars
in the blacks of your denial
in the frowns of your wife
in the play of your children?

“O the funk of six feet under!”
and I can’t help but wonder…