Thursday, November 20, 2008


The skin on his face is paper-dry
and delicately plicate. He scoops cullet
into the furnace that long ago sucked
the sweat from his body,
feeds breath into the pipe.

Under his hand the bubble swells
forming the deadly curves of a thresher shark,
or the frilled grace of a mourning-cloak
for the dream menagerie of a girl
trapped in her own seclusion.

They say art mimics life. Spiders
mimic their prey, trap them, wind them close,
suck away both blood and breath.
Cobwebs grow over the mummified corpse.
Dust gathers on the shelves of the studio
and the glass menagerie.

--for Poefusion and Tennessee Williams
Collection available! Knocking from Inside


Michelle Johnson said...

Nicely done, Tiel. You seem to crank out a poem in your sleep. They come so naturally to you. Have a nice day.

shelburns said...

I like it! We visited a glassblower once on vacation. I was picturing him in my head as I read your poem.

tumblewords said...

Nice work! It's such a lovely image. I could only think of glass, as well.

one more believer said...

wow, another excellent poem...images are awesome..