Shelleyıs Stalled Engine
harold fleming
Listen, Shelley - in another hour the moon
beaming at your window, charging your thoughts
you went to sleep with, so wrapped up in knots
the blanket was the first thing you forgot
till the cold moon reminded you to twist.
You caught your leg and heaved-ho with your hip,
hauling the blanket aboard. The moon stayed,
voyeur to your twisting and turning body
that will never be another bodyıs slave.
Moon, not man, does that. Irresistible
moon and stars and sun should be outlawed
when Shelley unwraps herself. She doesnıt need em.
She lives in a furry world but sleeps in this one
where man has been no more than a stalled engine.
