Meeting Janet at Eight

She comes out of the mist, more myth
Than woman. Product of mind, at
Once a fold-out girlie picture, now,
But maybe not forever, clothed,
And serpent, here to seize the
Shrinking husk of life from me.
That mouth! Those teeth! The
Lips upturned, in triumph?
She has frozen me. To what
End? I can't know; the mist.
The laugh, the kiss, the arms
Constricting, drawing girlie-
Picture form against the frame
Of man or victim, he who
Makes the myth.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 17 times
Written on 2013-02-07 at 22:22

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