Seeds Corner

By Maggie Ward

Smoky throat, kinky nocturnal hair, droopy Aquarian eyes,
the trouble that surrounds him coughs up its own company.
A fog emits from his irises outwards, his voice cuts the mist
of mystery. Sidesteps a shadow, still all black everything.
The lips of this modern vapor do not fade when they strike
fast and unforgiving. His past exploits are ones not worth living.
He may not be able to feel through his novocaine hands, may not
see through the balloons on his ceiling. Still stuck talking sky.
Proceeding through damaged lungs, chest full of haze and hell,
He fashioned a confessional, her legs the doorway, coming clean.
This she is a bishop, the minister with a neck to trace his sins
on with his tongue. It’d be sinister if he sounded any happier.
He’s always looking up, laid down and folded under. Holding
a charred deck of cards, dizzily debauching and seeking divinity.
A string whirls, a key swirls. He has another, blunted and breast
exposed searching souls. He can’t find another to put in work.
It’s a trilogy for him. Small redemptions hang on a horizon,
his morning chasing more nights. He will come to mourn it again.