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For Who

Growing old waiting for who
Reading while gravity grabs the skin
Heaven in eyes Winter vertigo
Loosing teeth on hard branches frozen twigs
Glimmer with a mirror crystal fire feeding
Hope full of holes like a crazy person
Foxing the world with a wardrobe of ancestral roles
Buying dialogs by the drawer full in an attic of antique resolve
Where window glass is a telescope of memory overflow, of rain
Types out braille staccato lists of ghost like names scrolling reverse
Senses sense their own imminent dismissal
Like a street car conductor at a Wagner rehearsal
Sending Viking Ships in the setting sun where cowboys shoot the gun
Target centers split like splinters seeking finger poles to nail
It is snowing minks and ravens wrestle angels in the yard
So familiar strangely blue
Growing old waiting for who . .

Poetry by Chaucer Whethers