The Hauntings

1 November 2012

eloquence is a furious hurricane,
it whirls and consumes and turns dizzy
all the known elements

and when it wanes I watch the water
turn to waves in sunset heat…
and so the hurricane goes, it goes in a snap,
and its echoes just slide away…

but they haunt my system until
I’m spread crippled and still,
beset by a self-conscious mind

I’m left alone, sometimes, with the ghosts of this,
of the eloquence that once occupied;
they jeer and they groan as they hand me in bones
this utterly frugal offer:
a steel-grey shroud of cold-frigid air

apparently

it’s some comfort against
the impending reheating,
the slow build-up of hurricane wild

I wait

the waves reverse the water
the sun rises like a shadow
and I can see it, the prospect:

of being silk smooth again
of being a slick social delight
and of being another cruisy-witty raconteur
who wraps them all, whatever audience there is,
in a hurricane of crucial hot air

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