writing poetry on an antique typewriter

 orange glow
on the paper past
a silverfish flicks on the grate
the heat burns
my cheek
and I write
 I write only to create

 how complete
to be wrapped in flesh
ruled by Venus and Saturn
dancing over Earth
 like a lighted wick
 expecting to be blessed

 if I could fillet the lie
and remove its spleen
my cat would come quick
for the reward—
 a taste of the notochord

(this shows how far we have erred
                             from the path)

 my back is cold
it is that time of year
there is nothing to fear
still we grow old
older than our clothes
 old into our particular doom