A Poem Beats Its Chest

Here, we sleep as if tucked into a deep snow.

My wife lies somewhere nearby as a wintering hydrangea,

while I am a small blue spruce.

And as moonbeams skate across us,

Look at me!  Ha, ha!

I am the potentate of the page.  While you are nothing… or

Oh, perhaps a lighted Caravaggio-like blot in the dark, reading.

While, look at me!  Ha, ha!  Here I am floating,

ensconced on the paper raft.

And while night stars move across your sky,

and frost collects on long grass stems,

these printed legs and arms, loin and limbs,

stretch like rooted tubers.  We winter in pleasure, and go to seed!

I sigh and exhale myself.  I extend.  Leaking, like a collapsed spud,

networks of somnolent life; the pale, pulpy corpus of a dream

layering itself, creeping back and forth upon itself and beneath itself;

these sheets are counterpanes stretched across seedlings.

I breathe, and fart as a pharaoh, imagining his edifices.

I explore and bequeath myself, unhindered and unbound.

I rummage in life, the potentate of this page.

                                                                         – by Carl Nelson

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