M a r c   V i n c e n z

Seeking a Home for the Spirit

Oyster-raw,

          these ready-made phrases

fingered from a well-fed black hat,

furred

        in a sheen

                      of magical intention,

running

        all over the place

                      like hand-reared mice—

mythical inflections of ire,

that deadly whiff

       mother left behind

                    on her icy bedside

and those cold honeys

        that barely, barely

                   made it.