Raise your vampiric fingertips to the blithering clouds.
Uneaten candlelight grows on your face with years of
Unsettled purity lapping like miniscule lions on the caves-edge.
Wrinkled maybe, they are the faint glowing embers of your
The balloon hasn’t even touched its icy feet to the ground.
Latently, they ask why you don’t fly, when over the shrouded
Gates of misused rings there hangs a globe.
Eternity sleeps too soundly, you answer in the hoarse-whispering evening
Where Rilke translates poetry that you thought you couldn’t write.
Danger doesn’t abound here, only terror at the lynch-pin
Holding flitting hours down.
I knew a boy once who ate the numbers out of watches.
Glad is his terror, terrible is your own.