Picaroon Poetry - Issue #13 - September 2018

Marc Frazier
Crossings
No matter whose bed you die in
the bed will be yours
for your voyage…
—Anne Sexton
We maneuver city crosswalks and don’t collide
radar guides us as we
enter into no man’s land and back during warfare
or over to some banal hatred.
I know the border of madness,
drugged back as
a fish deboned by night,
a purple hedge going to seed.
Boards from my childhood creak.
Dawn’s light: a leaf, I turn toward it.
All but one image of beauty slid from Aschenbach,
and two breathtaking syllables: Ta-dzio.
In the end, the sea will take me like a rose,
that, now, can be handled.
I ride this last bed, rising to the mouth of God’s moon.
There will be no questions, no password given.
In Judgment’s place: bang bang, knock knock,
the madman’s thrum.
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