Dialogue #10

It's time to really taste the root--
The night can chew through nacreous cheeks.

The Root of All scares me.
I want the sores on my face
to be soft roses hanging in the dark.

Press ointment through your veil to your vesicant ego.
There is no warehouse of seeds, no soil for this weather.

Hazy grey, this August night.
Attendants asleep in the hall
I'm clinging to a sound:
smoking moon through barred window.

(italicized stanzas by Moira Scheuring)
circa 1990