Posted by in Blog, Poems on Aug 11, 2013

His body hung on him as awkwardly

as his institutional clothes,

his eyes glazed like pots,


scabs of bad falls crusting his cheeks and brow.

He stared through the periscope of his soul

at God knew what petrifying Gorgon


or Sphinx, with its insistent riddle.

He held out a hand flapping

like the wing of a wounded bird.


I bought him off with some guilty silver,

and he pushed himself off, tied together

with the chafing strings


of our judgments and charity,

unable to solve any riddle,

already turning to stone.