Said the Rebel to my Heart,
“Can you feel the Braille of my Thoughts,
if read in the dark?
You should write a poem called
‘The Speculum’, so I can see
into the heart-shaped
box where you keep your soul locked
before I d(r)own it and depart,”
said the Rebel, who
stole—and failed—and who denied
what was said from the start—“You should
bide a moment…”—scalped
it from Time; sliced from orange-
faced Truth, the chime of the rewind
whose gears tell, mid-grind,
whose feat trampled—the stealth knell
of belles the Rebel sampled, spliced,
and stood-up each night.
Said he, “I have The Gift That
Comes with a Price; wrong turns make right
the dimming of dawns
our dance’s denim panting
painted-over and made less-bright.”
“Under pants are lies,”
said I, “And zippered teeth speak
the rumour, once sighed, that Silence
cannot clip, which flies.”