2/26 Archives - Not A Poem

Now you would not think

The twenty three twi-night years
were a piece with me,

the three seven or so cry-life years
I sat with for several friends,

and any reframed by godly doubt
I sat on sleeping, for all but a wooden

hour where it bled down to the intensive
grass, chewed at limit and listens when:

I was the wretched whiteness
espying the baptismal white dove

I was the wisp flying black on
water as your brown wrist stood firm

I was the tempting color brand just a
shade of external city ways

I was the breed green-of-leaf covering
clung to beatle knit love

I was the clean perfidious river
emaciated in hazy staying lips

I was the coronet shape hatched flat
blowing glass returns from sand

(Now you would not think)
I was the Minnesota feline sound

between an experience
and its expression, the

pink dark tonsil replicates
after a hardening poem

scaffolding, tatters of
aphorism, off-plastic cement

presume gold wrung, up-
raided, appraised, woven

evil tongue to an evil eye
Fauvist read! esconced in a

kennel of statement, once
of simultaneity by abeyance

Loss verbalizing amidst Gar-
gantuas, and arid plateaus,

the Egyptian coda; witticism
smoked upon blue tenement

cedes a censured pod for
cackling falsity mourned

“call it rest, call
it flight, name it freight

(I name it night)”
and Yes, our Yankees win