Hi folks, here's a new prose poem. This originally was published in The Cold River Review. This is very surreal. The rest you can figure out.
In our cave, I dance around the dying fire, chant your name backwards and wave a mammoth's tibia. I need you to create a cloud shaped like a chair. From the dark, you cry that I am driving you further underground. Cold ashes are not what I desire and follow. I leap onto the swing but the rotten rope drops me into the chasm. Aches do not stop me from wanting you. I search for the secret door and finding it, knock and enter. Shoving through the throng, I almost get close enough to touch you, but the boatman guides his boat along the shore and you get on. He thrusts his pole into the bank and you are gone.