To Begin Again

Here
within death of dreams
are old men made
rising each morning to don the
cloth of reality
stooping to spit the phlegm of a night's
longing into a porcelain bowl
men rising from a bed of hope

fragrance of spent dreams
like odor of love
heavy in their hair
oil of love
sticky on their fingers
fear of light a
darkness in red-glazed eyes

tangled in sheets of dreams
raging toward a labored union
ripped by an orgasm
poised a moment on pinnacle of
illumination available to
all men
only to fall

fall again
and forever
into basal flesh
decorated with
furs, perfumes of
decadent
eye:

will
limp as instrument of love
dangles
toy for the lady of fate who
flops it
gently
from side
to side.

John Ezra Fowler