To be a brass bed not be lied to,
conjured not played,
reinvented not fearful
or silenced or supposed,
reflected upon
not mocked,
backstabbed.
In open shadows I emit,
live out in the walnut woodlands.
I cast no vertical shadows
perceiving horizontal clarity,
perceiving long stretching
east-west ships
drifting across my Moon in Cancer,
my desert Ocean of greedy tears.
I envision an inside eye of it all
staring forward historically,
embracing this singular voice
stifling me within my walls,
and struggle to make it last.
Outside my backyard amphitheater
an uninvited stranger could enter,
perhaps an understudy peddling trees,
and my respects might be welcomed,
perhaps a more unpretentious life could be resolved.
Still, this actor must consider his existent life assembled:
posing outward
for personas surrounded by bottomless tables:
my lungs inhaling frost,
ice melting,
spawning a former life securely ensconced
nested inside my pretended cave of mist.
12/22/2022
Tucson, AZ