Karen R. Porter





Like any man on the cover of a book,

delicate in perfect black,

I am preparing to die.  Look—

always my hands are at work

turning over theories

to examine their supple undersides.

A stone grew wings

so I caught it in my mouth.

From a falling silver apple—

my tombstone, the finest fruit.

Hold a mirror

when the moon is two

shivers past new,

and the dark reflections of

all those literary men,

those preening, dapper, orgiastic

humming organisms

will glitter for the alchemist in you

then vanish

leaving behind their legacy—

a mound of teeth and bones.

Copyright © 2003 Karen R. Porter.  All Rights Reserved.

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