History of Induction

Your skin calls and mine
                  crawls.  The morning birds are warning in two beat refrain. 
They know how to name this. They know
     what free is
and I discern their undersong of logic.  I should flee
            this cell of human bones, this hell of flesh.
                   Charged with
                                      the knocks but charmed
                                                        by the art.
 I’ve stayed too long on your veranda.  Your
words fall like
           filaments,
                        surround me,
and I’ve been quoted,
saying I would not say this.  The rage of glee flashes sticky
                                         and I’m stuck,
housed in the hall of all
you didn’t mean. 
The walls moan in aggravation.
                                           Swine and foul, strung out
                                                              on my
heart of pearls.  You mistook their sparkling taste but stones deceitful do
                                                                                            not blush so.  Clear
                                                                                                                   cut is clear cut.  These beads
blazed but
still could
        calm.  I should have
held it in..
Beware the air
             that beckons, the
wrinkled
wondered whereabouts,
  the Ishmaels
      in procession.
When it skips- you know defeat, then sinuous
linen covering, far too thin.

The Sunday Whirl