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 --