BORN-AGAIN MYSTIC

by Benjamin Goldberg

 

 

You're pulled out of your eyes
through a shredder of venetian blinds.
Your breath, cold and disrobed,
wanders from your throat out to the red
barn where embers it remembers fell
back in their birch-tinder beds.

Are you waiting for dawn songs
and drums? Morning to slink
across the yard in her fragrance
of stale beer and burnt sage?
You'll remember your last life
by the clay-stained skirt she draped

over your shoulders as you shivered
just a bottle's toss from cinders.
Watch eyelids chop to an ah-ha
any light meant for revelation.
Listen as the television suffices
for a pin drop in this silence.

 

 

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