Night in the blue attic of the fermented apple.
The moon of dust peeps into the skylight.
I practice playing the stringless
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
Click on icon to visit Bill Lewis