At the Margin of Things

At the Margin of Things

These days

behind what I write

there's always rain.

Music opens a sphere

and unheard of ghosts

come and go as they please

singing,

dance me to the end of love,

but I can’t.

The insults, the injuries

made at the margins  

are unsafe halfway houses of terror,

where naked orange clowns 
grow balls, and file their nails.

Gravity ceases

under their wet boots

and it rains

all over

my margins.