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Get a copy of this writing in the Mark Fleury 2017 poetry book the Eight Wheeled Doorway of Serpent’s Head on line:

The Pillars

Mark Fleury

The pillars
That the museum’s front steps
Are in between are being
Smoked, because they’re cylindrical,

By one of the paintings.
I’m an island on the steps
And the ocean is my ear.

The tobacco that is now a hotel
Room’s plush carpet was rolled
Up tight in what is now the wallpaper.

My ear is the sun. The tide
Is my shadow,

Closing in, moon-engined,
Shallower, until my body
Absorbs my reflection.

The yellow stain that would’ve been
In the cigarette’s filter,

Twined in a thick rope,
Has been escaped by my shadow-neck.

Can you hear the waves? The depths
Have the sound of coldness.
When the sun is shining I can hear a beach ball
Bouncing from child to child. Seagulls.

My shadow, containing the night’s ocean,
Is a security blanket, dripping the blueness

Of the moon onto the floor. There’s a white light
In the waves that can’t tread on me.

The roots of the sun
Are on a steel table, exposed.

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