Automatic Writing

By now, I'm looking through
The back of my head, or over shoulder
From force of physical habit;
Wormed 'whole', clear out of the hole
But without any silly rabbit.

Seeing myself still spooning your curve
In a bed set for two, like a table in the stars;
So you can vouch, I travel in deuce . . .
Slipping right between coil of mortal bars.

Now I'll be sitting again to write,
But not with pen, rather the feather instead;
Quill being easier to move, in static light
Of finger-tips free of flesh's lead. . .

Poet's don't retire, as this testimony tells
But buffered in sage, still engage the fringe;
Talking in tongues of blue,
Expiring in the deeper wells, of astral hue
Where metaphorically. . .
They keep the cutting edge.

TBollinger