Icicle (Number 3)

Where is my muff Musetta?

I vanish into April then feel the jungle
flame of Africa on my tongue.
I thirst.

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
image.

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.

by John Farrell

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