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.
William Kopecky
A tempest lurks
My arms weep-
prepare to let go.
My sex is decimated,
and a sandstorm
is a banshee
behind my eyes.
Night strides over the city.
A tempest lurks
within this windy house.
He reaches
Over his head,
the stars are insects
sucking blood from the night.
A scarecrow burns poetry
in a blazing room.
The air outside is damp,
and beautiful for swampchildren.
His eyes are reflected
in the flames,
and illumination
mutilates him.
The wet earth drones
under the weight of amphibians
defecating in the mud.
He peers into the fire,
remembers,
and reaches for the light.
..
Wandler, Zeitschrift für Literatur, Heft 18
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