Night in the blue attic of the fermented apple.

The moon of dust peeps into the skylight.

I practice playing the stringless

                                    acoustic guitar;

   I'm almost able to get

                       silence from its sound box

      and my Tarot pack has a missing card,

           but I don't check to see which one;

   some things are best not known.

The house has long been pulled down

       but the blue attic still remains and I

Visit it from time to time to face my fears,

Which seem identical to my desires.

Only now I climb to it through the air

  as the steep wooden steps have gone.

The moon of dust wears long opera gloves

             that show off her shoulders of milk;

      her dress is of flimsy cloud, blown

Across her pale surface by amorous zephyrs.

Night in the blue attic of the fermented apple

where I wrestle with beautiful naked angels

     and dislocate my hip in the process.

I lay panting on the floorboards,

     my body slick with sweat and powdered

        by the ghosts of moths,

I take on the colour of a false dawn.

           When I return to my iron sleep,

A golden ladder of selves stretches from

           my head into the starrymost fermament.

        copyright Bill Lewis. All rights reserved


portrait of poet/painter Bill Lewis and his twin sister, the late Ashera Paris

oil on canvas 30"x 54"


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