Imaginary Friend
You are there
in the spinning night, clutching my heavy splendour
and spending my cheek with compassion
soaked through to the bone. A
rusty pilot overcome in the morning,
I become,
frowning and, crooked, between child
and universe, I stop in my throat -
a hateful haste -for you promote
me far more finer
with the shade of your parlour.
As I consider, a mermaid squealing
through an eye of a skull, much better, less restless,
not unlike a satellite
cruising over little thoughts running around,
or an age over a town,
you take the temper like a stem in a vase,
and nourish, and nourish,
toeing me around.
I make you for the better part of me,
I don’t know how you do it.
Cynthia Buell Thomas
Wed 3rd Mar 2010 13:01
I absolutely love this. It throbs with everything that makes poetry personal, powerful and fine art.
Do you always think like this, or do you foster a 'special poet's place' in your head?
'toeing' is unusual. I'm sure it's exactly what you wanted, but 'different'.