Bowl of Light - The Argotist Online

tryst
Sometimes there're not enough words
regardless of marching order:
those listing critters, drunk from
birth but running already,
prints further apart
rain collects in small depressions
growing fat and inconsiderate
where I
flounder on the page, blind
and wheeling
for a new labyrinth,
where my legs cover distance,
where the horizon has a beginning
one with scars where foliage should be,
soft-shed blossoms underfoot
where my horizon has no end
where you are courted by animal-faced men,
scents of lilac and
a cup of fresh tea in hand
a Japanese folktale taken
from the library and fondled
Poets like the lost,
hold chaos on burning tongues,
and walk through gardens of
impossibility
sowing life.