Gemini
Polarity, the Twin Giants --
resounding in
a bottomless Well, I stumble
boldly in
the dark, my Home, my Hearth, my
health -- Wheels
spin wildly in Autumn's dust
so many leaves
who grieve with Us
there, on
a bleak Horizon, these Masts
broken
at Will drowning our Hearts to say, "Yes,
I meant that," or
"No, that isn't it, at all" -- We
wield Axes
at our thin bodies, recalcitrant with Hate, Envy, Love -- this, Our
Center Stage
where craggy Men in Cobblers' Shirts bleed
silently and with Vigor -- Incensed
by a slim Altitude which
will not Abate here in our tepid Fall -- What
is it
that Creates a Force against itself? Every
action has
an equal and opposite reaction So we think, these
pallid days exploding in
Splendor
the Twin Giant wrestling with itself Our
Union
and desire conflated with the Pain
of a broken hip our Mothers wise
with acute
foreboding those veiny hands which Caress
Us
in a quiet Supplication of tenderness
and Remorse --
"I thought I saw a Cloud display in Orange
and Yellow; it was the
backlash of Some dark Reckoning, an
inch closer
to our Intent," or so We said -- Green
Rivers laced with foam Curdle
about mossbitten rocks -- the
Canopy that once was green now
prismatic in a fine Mist -- How can
we Hate who
we Love? --
Our minds are acrobats tumbling Sore in
the great Tent -- the Clowns'
Wise bones stamp
across the Arena, horses trailing
stirring up
powder and Mirth for young Spirits ghosts
of an Urge forsaken
and Alone -- What
Mirror reflects duality, a Skewered Self, victim-
less? -- We have
wandered white corridors tobacco
in our minds, the
heavings of lungs long lost
against a
Starry backdrop now Uncovered
by Masquerading puppets Comic
in their Pain, these
knaves our
would-be Saviours pushing Us out to
Arch our
Arms like the whitewinged Crow who
Scorns Us, We
the interloper
in his fields, the Avatar
of a weary Sage counting backwards
to his beginnings -- What
Once was an Instant
is now a Year -- We battle each
other for
the chosen Perch; We
undercut
our intentions with a Sword
of Spanish Steel -- We
remind Ourselves of Ourselves,
mute Now and attenuated; Why
do we Cry, here, un-
derstanding that We will no longer
be when
the clock strikes Twelve?
We have entered the realm of Our Duality,
our give-and-take, our
frustration and coercion,
theories of wool
and lavender beside our loom
these Opposites
our Conjugal rite -- backpressure
pushes against our Will bending
Us lithe and knowing in a fight
that will
resolve itself in a quiet light,
there, on
our glowing Precipice, stilled
by Fate --
