Feste's Lute

Where linchpins have delved
and draw forth their clubs;
Point weaves a cypher
and tacks mark finance.

In their subconscious,
The left hand grip scribbling,
outreaches for catskills
carves folds in our minds

Arrest in an aria
a ransom of breath.
A runnel’s aphasia
The press corps sits mute…

Cog/wire/crypt/drake
decompress retinae;
lids spasm, birth visions,
and beg to awake

Pen-tips stab and carve their script thoughtless
as tongues of fox-fire drift round my neck.
Our floor-boards ablaze with swampgas visions,
the clocks perch rigid, three hands held tall…

My guests eyes all-seeing, the ten sons of Argus
and piteous spectres peek past cold panes
but it’s no letter, or bright invitation;
just malign jibes in short, soft quatrains
and reads like a offer from arachnids
To sweetly mend my sweater