Unfinished Poem by Morgan Michaels

What a strange mood's looked me up
like I had stared too long into the pond
of a moonstone and by its chilly light read
all night while the heater hummed
some overlong epic of a lady and a knight
quite to completion, as the hours fled,
sharing only with the cat my rumply bed.

Goldengreen flecks dance before my eyes
glancing off the slightly curvilinear crust of the
earth; visions flings themselves coldly space-ward;
their trajectories skipped from its vertices
past asteroids leaded, brushed and ignored
by the fiery tails of comets you couldn't hope
to avoid. There on a stage, I

grasping and tragic, is spat-clad
Gatsby veering to gloomy Rodenka
among many things, or stricken-savage
Eurydice at the crossroads of undoing
tired, in the end, of song, jaw attractively
set, rope jumping in the instant twilight,
thinking she ought to meet Ulysses.

What do you mean, swarms of dreams
beside me on the floor? Will come again?
No. Off, then, already, don't lean on me.
Look: out of my lies, and sighs and spare reams
of rainbow I have knit a kind of jerkin,
a clingy danskin, with a single wing,
a wisp-of-the-will, and mean to wear it well.