the tea is drunk

the tea is drunk
the log fire dawdles

the music wanes

the seance begins 

the words cross over 

onto the page

  here

    see

you are reading them

  now

the beholden poet’s clatter

is spilled in word’s that clatter

it doesn’t matter 

          it doesn’t matter 

let the seance resume

let the abscess that gathers

all the puerile aged pus 

yield to my sinus pen

be lanced the boil

drain the mind marinade

of the all the anthologies

and all the libraries of noise

  how 

can I sear this tattoo 

of the past and

brand the page anew

or water mark it

as my own

  exorcised of the poets 

the vacuoles still remain

to permeate my poems

  is there no icy pool 

into which I can dive

and emerge pristine

let me think

      let me think