When the Past Asks Something of the Present

I stand on disappointment’s rising shoulders,
     licking an ear the invalid clouds
sluggishly surround, lubricated lightning
     falling from my heretic tongue as
its perfidy penetrates that hairy part
     of him disappointment yields to no
one, that cavern where kneels a prison of spilled
     petitions shedding wet auroral
convictions, spectrums anticipating an
     audience where there is not one; in
his ear I hear only my calamitous
     conspiracy of solar rays the
chorus of planets, in their anxieties
     of anarchies, perform for what was
once hope, tears made moist, laid bare with mosaic
     delicacy on a dirty floor,
the planets themselves braid rainbow chords into
     voices they break, razoring to raw
misfortune all of hope’s portions, sizzling to
     flares swallowing oceans ignore; and
desperate as hope, I hope too, to be heard,
     tonguing disappointment’s ear, on his
shoulders rising to occasions of twilight
     straitlaced, corseted nightfall bulging
out of grace, and in misplaced sunset we face
     disappointment, taking from crumbling
conundrum a salve, a bitter-herbed unguent
     of what is not deserved, but confront
uncertainty in the faded exposure
     of her mourning, dusk draping trust in
what should be a brighter likeness, but is no
     better than first frost, rotting in an
instant early spring’s furious resilience,
     and within a duplication of
such prescience, I feel unheard, ignored, by
     disappointment my voice turned to an
inscription frigid scholars will not unearth
     until the dying sun collapses
and my all-engulfing darkness anoints them.