The Black of Beyond

I’d really rather not
be writing with a peacock quill;
give me crow, owl or eagle
any day
and this purple ink
is pungent with juniper berries.

I’m trying to ignore
the upending of time,
the shrouded candle,
the black roses
and the skeletal hand,
which will not let me
make a call.

Searching for citrus pips
I’ve found only pearls;
salt-water ones at that.

The whey-faced girl
hides beside the trunk;
ideally she’d like
to be in it,
but she’s never forgotten
The Mistletoe Bride.

The Black of Beyond

I’ve given up trying
to read the book
because every page is the first;
the elephant’s read it
, but all he wants
is to forget.

I have managed
to uncage the soap bubbles;
hopefully they will dissolve
this disquiet.
The black of beyond
is safely there
to return me to oblivion
when this dream is over.