Poems

14 • metaphor

you're trying to piece together those
precisely cut, smooth
thousand pieces of moon
jigsaw
the moon is in the centre of the jigsaw and
slightly left, as though [it were] the heart

the rim/edge of the heart is cloudy
the needle thin star light pierces concealed/in darkness
(if one/we walked barefoot across
it would definitely hurt wouldn't it)
these clouds, star clusters
this chaos you know about
is fun, is the process of the gay
necessary confusion
you're trying to piece together the moon's round
            (why has the moon changed shape
            cracked
            can't be put together [neatly])

the moon says that things were to begin with
like this, scattered,
a thousand pieces of moon cluttering/surrounding/blocking the bedside
you are trapped in the moon
in your own
confused imagery

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Comments (2)

Peter Mullins

After further work…
Around beam-barricaded
bedsides, shards of crafted light
wait to pierce through naked soles,
yet look left, just off centre,
roughly where the heart should be,
a chaos-cluster spews, foals,
cloudy-edged, joyous, required
confusion’s wild scattering;
the still pools, the perfect bowls
of your imagination,
have been, the moon says, the snare
for jigsaw habited souls:
a thousand splinters of moon
will not piece together whole.

Peter Mullins

A thousand splinters of moon will not piece together whole. Beam-barricaded bedsides are where shards of crafted light wait to pierce each naked sole, yet look left, just off centre, roughly where the heart should be, where the chaos-clusters foal, cloudly-edged, joyous, and free, while image-confusion traps each jigsaw obsessive soul. A thousand splinters of moon will not piece together whole.

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