Abyssinia

Sometimes these abysmal lows
Seek to address and occupy

My own ebbing soul’s
Reclusive loan and use

Of shadowy caverns,
Avoiding outer

Stony nomenclatures
Or any such anatomies of light,

Suspended and unrarefied
Far beneath the looms

Of gloomy, nervous time.
And if poured out now

From this diluted womb of myself,
And if all I am told should sleep,

And if all I observed and believed
Tattooed into the warp and weft

Is less akin to blood
In her unusual rivulets

Underneath riveted drifts
Within my skin and my bones,

Nor like molten gold
Or anything else so brightly bold,

But doubtlessly a
Thick congealing

Tarry albumen
Under my night-auk’s

Starless eye and ceiling
I am constantly reeling

In a reckoning disguise,
And arctic cold.

Sometimes I feel as though
Life is a test without answers.

Sometimes I feel my road
Is routed through converging disasters.

My body brittle as a twig
Drifting away from life’s fine flourishing,

Away from glittering citadels of my truth
Down a bruising river,

And when they find my floating form
Who will be my forgiver?

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