Beautiful Noise

The Storyteller's Craft

Facing first principles,

my lips pursed, as if

to kiss or spit,

I do not beg eternal questions.

They would only, silent, sneer,

like a woman's naked face


at my head between her thighs,

the silence cold, impervious.

I offer my best answer:

An application of the tongue,

the storyteller's craft,

And hope to shut those eyes,

to make the mouth a sighing triangle,

soft and slack, its murmur

miming but not meaning woe.


Poetry Writing Dancing Badger