Icicle (Number 3)
Where is my muff Musetta?
by John Farrell
I vanish into April then feel the jungle
flame of Africa on my tongue.
Where is the wine?
The Sphinx, suffering, holds an empty
bottle as I grow more lily-white by the second.
In the mirror I am drinking in my ragged
Where is the music now?
The ears burn from Locrian melodies;
I am a piece of history that should be treated with respect.
The gentle Nazi philosopher, his pockets shielded,
kisses my eyebrows in the after-life.
I see now that I am a frozen lake, women have cut holes into me,
dropping in their salty lures and pulling out nothing.