Ridd e

The Sphinx steams in silence tonight, draws our lots with gleaming paws licked clean of that cosmic potion; chalice empty, he asks for change;

body of rage, head of sage, he pours his riddle into my cup:

What screams like a dove & cries like a flute?

Mellow-handed madness sings things I can’t remember, things I can’t forget; the Sphinx drinks me in for my answer, question dripping from his lips;

I do not know.

He sneers and refills my cup; through this haze he creates, his riddle can brew:

Is it me or is it you?

Poetry 7