Tell the Prisoner
·
Tell the Prisoner
there is a key.
He has locked his copy in a golden box.
What reasons
are there to run toward the sea?
Earthquakes
move us inward, or so I would think.
Toward the fresh
water bodies. Toward the finger sized black flashlights
that write in
the dark but never die.
There is a talk
of a big storm. Some say it.
A storm out
of a Stephen King novel. Winds,
pounding the shore,
lighthouses
dissolving beneath the snow. The search for light
begins, never
ends. Light unlabeled. Light unbroken.
Love, Love.
I checked the morning news. One inch of snow
in Saratoga.
Blanket the horses.
Blanket the doves.
Tell the Prisoner
there is a key.
He will feel manipulated
by the devils.
He will feel only slight relief. He has more
reasons than
ever to run toward that big paper balloon
called the sea.
It eats his features. It yawns
his face
into its suction
cup
& takes him back
to the village
bicycles built for a thousand
back to his cottage
inland
where the lighthouse salts meat
where the dirty white dog
named Salt
walks around the circus poles pissing
gentle relief.
Prison either makes you believe or pares
your belief
from you. I have been there.
It named me "who"
it tamed my
cussing soul.
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