SEANCE

 

Nothing exists

in the space between

us, there is only

room for collision,

blood of sacred union,

oedema of harsh impact.

 

 

There is blood on the wheel

of endeavoured enterprise,

blood on the seat of your hearse

where you lost control

of the virgining, tired,

frank and just.

 

 

Drive through the woods

and take the left here,

where it is cool and dark.

Show it to the councillor

and ask:  what day is it

to be that you all come

to wedding?

 

 

When shall be the bloodletting

what shall we take?

Shall we hold you to artist’s

shaking hands, or

laugh to the rhythm

of the answered calling

called the right of retinue

to be here?

 

 

It will be answered again

by the fullness of moons

and the heartiness of blessings

from the sun who must

be to be here, where

they all see it as an

antwoord not séance.

 

 

 

 

 

COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2017