KING
Left inside the mound, I accompanied him.
First it was silver, then sand.
There was a shape of a great melodrama
And clue by clue, I smelled the change in the air
“Grace is set in stages,” he said, “I won’t burden you with the list.”
“But what we love will be forgotten, if we don’t follow discovery.”
This is not the start of love. It is a dream in the long line of a horse,
The wide bow of a ship, or the ribcage of the biggest heart.
The silver chipped away and a thrill rose in a dark-light.
The doubt then was a fat flower blooming
I said, “More. More. MORE!”
Only that deafening smell of the overripe
Could wake me from that blast. That pomp.
blog of poet, leah umansky 
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