POETRY
“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble
the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome