Matthew Cook

July, in the Fourth Sign

                              

 

In the maiden case,

the shameless phrase

lowers your eyelids withal,

so you gather must

from having heard.

 

What you can name

is the body swinging

like a door on its crimson

hinge, and any mortal

accessories staggering

like escaping mannequins 

from shop window displays.

 

Hoping not to drown

in heat-seeking humidity,

your humanity quivers

in the liquid seeping in.

 

The third time rattling anemic,

palled you signal

with your muzzled grin,

from within your patient

costume and assemblage

of plasma props, exiting

down the theater’s stage left

aisle, posing a distant gaze

for a final still—

the lens flames with

your still luminary optics.

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Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editor(s) of Penumbra who first published this poem.

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