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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