Hidden Chasms, Part Two

The Perfume of the Abyss, by Rene Magritte, 1928

aching you drop
the binoculars

they clatter
you don’t trouble

yourself to bend
and save them

the jaundiced moon
so bitter

it burns the skin
hiding in your gown

a blanket missing
from the porch

the downy one
so soft it cuts

where did it go
why did it vanish

your hands the last
remaining thieves

across the way
window light whispers

a house so dark
the shadows itch

your doorway sighs
against your back

are the hedges
still along the walk

or does the night
preach desertion

urging existence
into silent exodus

or do leeches
sleep in skulls

after devouring
jelly eyes

attuning their host
to a quiet song

rustling voices
dew the breeze

the eroding hiss
of calloused sand

silent cry
of aging cells

dry branches moan
the ending theme

your amnesiac gaze
chokes the lambency

the horizon chews
against the moon

you relent
and begin to search

the binoculars
are gone

By Justin A. Burnett

©2018 Silent Motorist Media