JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

beyond echo of folded bells

comes midnight’s apothecary

crooked as candle wax, his finger

creeps along your neural paths, nimbly

 

he twists the volume button back

to zero as batwing and nightingale now

fade your ears to padded cotton cells

he jabs his mellow needle through

 

your drum and you awaken joined

by shimmered silken wire to his concerto

of forgotten souls, octaves and potions

bubble sonic incandescence as you

 

strive to understand the cadences, hear the beat

of starlit castanets, the sulfur fumes

of Jupiter, Neptune’s net of wintergreen

and candlegleam, all melodies and song

 

stringing, ringing, singing  in your night

and as you fumble for your notebook

fingers scuffling pencil tight

you click the light, the curtain drops

 

your eyes blink walls and wardrobes

dream regret and tears and all remains

the echo of his bells, soap bubbles in your ears