Lament for Dracula
The mist thought itself a man, the man thought himself
down to the thin; woke damp, woke
dim, symmetric and dumbstrung across the tobacco rows
of Ivor, Virginia. Pink flowers to trouble the hair; pink flowers
to fret empty the lungs. What has begun began
with a drunk firing a frog gig, navigating swamplands
by muzzleflash. She named the shots
stars. Next, came you,
you to carve ghosts into bus-stop benches.
You, to cry into the barrel of your guns.
We can live forever among our wrong loves
if we can grieve, if we believe we are capable
of any real grief (no, we are not). Trace a name
beneath the black plate of the moon:
your secret constellations,
try to share them with anyone and you'll never aim at the right spot.
So plot their ecliptics for yourself. Track their unluster. The man
thought itself a mist and so thought it could know itself
by what it filled, by what encircled it.
And so it disappeared. If you're alive, it's because the heart
is a smaller target than you'd think.
- Jamison Crabtree (from apt)