Some Other Magick

Distant. Over-distant
and distracted.
The cheek on hold
and redly blemished.
My motherly mouth of gone months
asserts itself in yawns.
I wonder if this lasts
forever sufficiently…
A grimace on the way
speechifies the spectrum.
The purple plectrum
between my fingertips
doesn’t strike whatever’s stricken.
Thus I strum
no manifestos of the moon,
no tunes of night-bound politicking.
Some other magick’s what is needed.
My gregarious blanket
bleakens, doesn’t beckon,
and weighs its heft
against my passive heart.
The stars are meddlesome
and white as sickness,
refusing to be plucked.

-r. miller

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