The wanderer handed the teller his note:
“Crisp, clean, random-numbered
leaves, untraceable—What’s my face
telling you?” The teller rolled her eyes,
clicked her tongue without alarm, ready
to charm with her green-and-whites
this hobbling fool in her parlor.
Unable to speak, cursed to write only poetry,
he’d arrived with colored bandages—Indian summer’s
subtractions—wrapped smartly around his head.
This barely walking, non-talking torture, he
wanted a fortune, an ensured happy ending.
It would cost nothing less
than a charred piece of his heart.
But the traveler had already torn
and worn himself beyond destitution, his
fevered destinations pulling him through
all the wrong seasons; he’d been strung up
and wrung by Eden’s vines (implanted in him)
and bent through Heaven’s hypercubed dimensions.
Fate, slaked: Forever through his veins, ice
wine would flow, reminding constantly, forcing
him to be sweetly pleased with his worst mistake:
Waiting to approach his would-be bride
far too late.
Want more poetry? Please check out Spring’s Fall.