Care’s Wrought Vine

A bag of wind, violence wrapped in canvas,
armoire brown and tall, antique as a distant solar wind
caught between one Castor, one Pollux searching for home,
is placed in the hands of a sailor, strong, tall,
tanned by Trundholm, and worn like fig leaves
bound by the sins of yesterday, the sins of April.
Shocks of twine bind the leather mouth, a mouth
caught by torments, the Tantalus, the tapeworm writhing,
all bought the mind of Hamlet and none of Macbeth.
A Stone’s Story extended by thesis, death extended by
wails and tears.

“He who measures life by coffee spoons has a basement
full of boxes.” And dances to the din of china, dances
to the din of china.

Violence wrapped in canvas, sheathed in stone,
dreams of beaten mares and chases buggies to the curb,
stings the whip of madness to the eyes, sings verses onto
yellow paper, inked notes from air. Dreams of
wrapping arms around the house’s head and fields
of blood to graze it. Betrayal is a perfect thing
which breaks the waves of doubt to help a hamlet
entertain Macbeth with bread and wine, a white wine
served chilled like the blood in my veins.

“He who measures life by coffee spoons has a basement
full of boxes.” And dances to the din of china, dances
to the din of china.

Death steals horses like an evening thief, leads them to villages
tucked in fog and hills behind the Himalayas.
My shoes are steel! My feet are gone! My chariot digs
its feet in mud and rocks, and I shall be buried in it.
My bag of wind has blown to the sun, that heel of a sun
who blinds Castor, hides Pollux and burns the canvas,
but the twine, ah, the twine is in my hand. It twists like
vines, now binds my hands and roots my feet in something
similar to silence.

“He who measures life by coffee spoons has a basement
full of boxes.” And dances to the din of china, dances
to the din of china.