Muses

by Alyssa Nickerson

The dogma of derelicts is divulged in delicate
dialects, a dialtone drama seen through dire lens,
as with a sense of the obscene or failed future tense.

We met beneath Spanish moss and wild oak, spoke
of the irrelevance of masterpiece as plaster peeled
from cabin walls and cold cracked the calcite
hulls of plantation columns, a sultry puzzle
scattered under stars. Far from home, the vast
unknowns of southern culture showed through
champagne haze and the rosy glaze cast upon lost
lovers by memory, a fallacy of time and mind.

The flights of fancy once ascribed to poetry have
dissolved in fits of filtered light. You find your frail
calling behind the shadows of a mirrored
hall with the grit and gall of borderline heroes
(long since fallen and reduced to ash).

Match these shattered glyphs with pride,
with lines the shade of your sleeping
sighs and shifting eyes (beside me in chicago
morning). Some brands of longing will not
be denied. Consider this fair warning.