Le retour

There will never be triumph
Showers of glitter will bite
And experience will cheapen the fresh-mouthed
Crisp, baby-skinned, paler orbit
Around the corners of the world.

Years don’t bloom, they swallow.
And with them, the fragrance of who you are
Pours out as if a blocked nose, never restricted,
Pouring, oozing, dry, distasteful,
Sticking to your throat.

The head of a cobra, only the cobra
Is a sultry little garden pest. The head recoils,
Beneath the crunch of a foot. The teeth
Glare and gleem, the whistle of a
Penny found in the place of a pound.

Eight years ago, I had a roar revving in my chest,
A rolling purr tempting and seducing and humming
Eight years later, I have grey eyes and my ankle
Caught in a tightrope: am I constant, consistent, and clear? Or am I still the f*****g haze?

There is no place to be confused.
I know what I want, but not how to get it. Or,
I know how to feel, but not how to feel it.
In the backlog of my dreams, there’s a lamb,
A sphinx cat, and a pile of bones.