Poems by Chris Hill

Plenty of Horn

a poem by

Chris Hill

Of all my incongruous thoughts
I beg of you
To list amongst them
The sunny day when all intentions
Seem somehow grafted onto
Some ungodly ersatz skin
A rough hewn hide, a pelt,
An overcoat of warm semantics.

I say beg because I have
Stolen and borrowed.
Please loan me metaphorical coins
To throw into real fountains.

In sleepy lieu of waking toil
I urge you
To tell me comfortable lies
Each one recurring like a decimal point
Or a crude x-ray thrown
Against a darkened window
To reveal a spectral
Skeleton of everything I’ve ever said.

By urge I am of course
Tacitly referring to
The lurch of lust I feel
At every junction point to home.

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