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gustav dore

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death and burial

wm

Saturday, May 25, 2013

I Read In A Quiet Voice
















too quick for reflection, a mere flit-speed
dead flush to and skewed exactly zero from
really aligned with that crazy mixed-up coconut
Lucy, before Carmine's spinning butterfly toes
sank any chance never had by one such as me --
poet-recluse, bard of the meantime, till we get there.

There being where being there alone
expects light-piercing literal dashes to
do just what primordial dashes do best,
and leave space for a mark, again, like me;
taken at short odds, and spilled long:
how many, remember now, is it ... nine?

No, no, seven, seven cherries make the rack.
And the man (not that one), is he forged first in
profile's brief suggestion of image? or faulted, first
for leaving, then for going (not quite the same);
and only lastly, for the brief wanting of
more than they were near aligned to. 


3 comments:

BC said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
BC said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
BC said...

"Poet-recluse,
bard of the meantime,
taken at short odds,
and spilled long."

I like this for your brochure.