absent without leave

those were the days X thought,

fresh from a bodice-ripper. 

just their coins in the jukebox:

when X was draped in dangerous

& smelling like the rub of a magazine test,

at a seaside bar off-season.

where they hid their face in slept-in sheets.

where no one was hurt in the making of the film.

most of their space not occupied

with text          is filled with furniture

shorter than the height of expressing.

all day drive to arrive again

past houses meted out as chucked beliefs

trying on the light of magic hour.

a loose lug nut keeping time

like a system with spare noise

making the name hard to spell.

X notes the change of scene

& the soundtrack: room tone with rain.

they pivot to a safer chair

far from the words area.

one more mask is an old idea

from times of dividing down the middle

where not all breath is welcome.

if a cello could speak

it’d say let brahms do the talking

to brook unmoved shoulders,

to mouth this inclement sky.

tomorrow they’ll stand marigolds

for a day of the dead

that will set off red faces after weeping.

now, a pint foams over

& slips thru roughhewed boards

ending in sand like surf.

their name is a guest of the body:

the ghost of the guest of the host.

their body

not enmeshed with want

or the rhythm of brilliant typing

is not enough chase to fit into.

until a stranger & a daybreak moon

reminds X of locking print

in place & the parting of skin.

Ken Taylor is author of 'first the trees, now this' (2013), 'dog with elizabethan collar' (2015), 'self-portrait as joseph cornell' (2016) and the forthcoming 'aeromancy garage' (2020). He is the founder and editor of selva oscura press.