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.