"These are but wild and whirling words, my lord"—Hamlet.
My words, they whirl. Now let the whirlwind thresh
The kernel from the chaff! I stand the test,
I find the center of the storm. My best
Monstrous congested nimbus, towering, fresh,
Inseminates the cloud-folds of your flesh.
A cushion-push, the tremor of a breast,
The flutter of a plaice or pilchard pressed
Within an ocean trawler’s nylon mesh—
Caught in the meshes of my twisted nets,
Alive and bound by finger bonds it frets
And flounders in the strict embrace of love.
Consider yourself warmed! And glisten up:
These words that clink like tiddles in a cup
Are space debris and lethal miles above.
1/16/2015
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