To: Saintfall

(POSTMASTER)
To:saint fall

(THE GHOST)
My lover when she came to me, to bare me.
Couldn’t bare me, in the mirror she gave.
So the image is cracked, as to stack a lifetime of shattered glass.
“when my shadow ghost now grows”
The thunder was tapped when a siren alerted me that
The bowels of emergency were exposed.
That thing was racing and casing in fire and or sea.
So while chasing the desire, my lover and my language devoured me.

(THE GIRDLE)
It’s reflected in the news of my refocusing eye.
That the clouded sickle is cutting clean on my backside.
With all that’s not needed so as to leave it behind.
“when focusing and reframing in contents revised”
It’s a language gun, shooting bullets that penetrate then purify.
Like stars talking within a cluster or the river between her thighs.
What’s left is left but what’s there is the snare.
For those who still require, the requirements of error.

(REVISIONS)
To the sailor; the whirlwind has an eye.
To the stars; a scale for communication.
To the babe; a community called thunder.
But to the saint: there is the fall.

(P.S.TESTIMONY)
From: the sailors of the starry eyed babe and i.
That ghost that is your guide.

© Je0ff Taylor| Saintfall | 1995

I wrote this poem shortly after moving to Chicago, Illinois in the summer of 1995. I then spent the next 6 years using Saintfall as a pen-name