Tryst Poetry by Joseph Carcel 

A Blind Mouse

Fever rings me rings me rings me my bursting
passion jailed. I long for that one pure
kiss to take me home, calm
sinuous rivers rise.

If I were a painter, I'd smear
oils, reify soul's shatter
to congeal again, tamed
into peaceful reminiscence.

Or if an old man, used, unuseful freight,
I'd tell my single story,
fugitive echo of an ancient war,
battle flag of blue vein pulsing wave.

Or if apothecary, steeped
in ancient lore, I'd conjure simple
titrate of patient cooling
drops. And yet

even so fractured, I walk now
as if one. With a single motive of nod and smile
I'm counterfeit, bereft
of substance, fragment of shadow and thought.

How can this invisible burn invisibility,
swell into mouse or man...more
than mirage, dance
of heat's shimmering, pound

insubstantial form to rib, flesh seared
with the branding hammers
that pound my heart to swell?
Better be mouse blind,

crawled between her thighs
for nuzzle, warmth within
crisp pubic straw, rising up with her,
inside wet aromas, stupidly daring

the silver shimmer of her
husband's machete
except what's within me,
what I'm within, being blind, I'd stay

oblivious to such symbols of rejection.

2002 Joseph Carcel

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