Spring 2007

 

 

 


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Pantoum for a blackout
Matthew Spillum

I swirled through a fog of faces
warped and shifted funhouse-fashion
trod what seemed like patient paces
timorously trailing my ebbing passion.

Warped and shifted, funhouse fashions
unfurled in sparkling eyes and sweaty smiles.
Joyous, mocking my fleeing passions.
The inches between us stretched for miles.

Vision curled, dancing eyes and flashing smiles
come to meet me, ghost by ghost.
I trace touchless inches, stagger for miles.
“Stay here,” my mantra, seems a foolish boast.

And still, they come, ghost by ghost,
to ask, I think, “are you okay?”
“I’m here, still here,” I try to boast,
or maybe I sit and drool and sway.

Again, insistent, “are you okay?”
sounds, off to a bleary port side.
A hand on my shoulder makes me sway
and shake my head at my new guide.

With soothing shoulders on either side
I staggered through a fog of faces.
Just another ragdoll needing a guide
and help to take my patient paces.

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