Tessa, The Birthday Girl’s Poem

To a man in dark glasses I’m listening
defining a voice, singing a dirge
of a middling kind–in furtive shadow there you are,
standing behind, carrying a pail and tripping over,
nothing to fault but the weight, sudden
the wind knocked out of you–
so in precipitous row we have entered through
yet another door. That kind of vibe
defines us; more than ever a principled rattling
through stained glass window communing,
and ear to ear blowing religion,
because that transfigures all,
the purgatory that threatens the seeming.
And reverence is what I wished for
when body’s being held hostage, even bewildered
in the wilderness when the sun rises
tomorrow it’s still spellbinding.

Prompt: I think I’ve said it before, about showing up for work. When I show up a poem kinda pops out of the oven. It’s kind of magic. I don’t know how long the magic will last. I’m willing to bet that if I don’t practice a kind of literary rust will happen and I’ll kick literary dust. So today, I’ve got another Dylan number. To be honest the poem happened before the song. That song just kinda fits. So here it is, and you’re to write about it, around it, away from it and then come back to it. Oh right, imagine you’re coming to another birthday and mortality’s knocking.


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