. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .

Thursday, February 15, 2018

Layla


     Layla, travel weary princess
and tireless fence runner
hunter in the heather in leather and clean linens
spent dreaming
spent spinning
red devil in your red ears ever listening
found you drowning in the heat of your own clutch
where it feels no pain
where it
hurts
in the center of your heart where the dark fire burns
     Layla, spend your summer nights
(if you must)
in pursuit of that holy truth
in the dirty bed in the center of my room
trumpets playing midnight tunes to crows and thieves
and fools
Jesus in the warm heart of a whore
     Layla, with pockets full of gum and copper change
nothing is
as it was before
nothing changes
a dangling moon hangs as low as it always has
gravity as heavy as invisible gas
silver serpents cold to the core
lower us into the burning flame
I cried
she sang
everything seemed rearranged
every
thing.

TA

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