Hickory Dickory

The scent of soil and coffee
rouses a craving
surpassing all other hunger
no matter how true the tongue’s aim
once was. Milk and melon
no longer satisfy.

Embedded
in your salted flesh,
reassurance is neither wanting
nor wanted. Pavlov’s bell
clangs appetite awake.

Remind me to rest. I will
resist. Temperance is for the wise
and upright. Since I bent
lips to neck,
the taxonomy of hominids
is no longer apt. That was epoch
past. The casing has cracked.

Slipping through the glass face
and arriving
at midnight’s skyward reach
again wholly new
again exactly the red-knuckled
carillon I have always been

is the surprise
in pendulum’s broadening glint
of your company.

You are far more than reflection
or distortion’s flattery.
You are hands taut
at the gears, turning
and holding firm in equal measure. You
are the straddle
of descent and climb. You
are you

striking dawn alight, chime
and chimera alike.

You
I will pursue.

Guide me to my nest. I will
lament. Infancy is for flightless
genera unacquainted with the thrill
of falling airborne
well before the hour
of need.
Certain winged things prefer
to hunt at night
and some among us know
no other way.
 

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