Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Verging on a branch, a
Jouncing the red-eyed constellations.
Scholar of terrible plastic solitude
I carry a bag full of brown
And rectilinear daydreams. Observe
How the plump pigeon pokes its beak
Into a puddle-filled pothole.
The mudslick of March has
Begun, per order of the Deputy
Sheriff of Prestidigitation.
I have prepared an operation
Which will turn pennies into
Pocket-watches. "I must get
To my repast directly," spake
The temperate ant beneath the driest
The tasteless power of rainclouds
Cramps the heart and makes the brain convince itself
That surviving a damp late Saturday afternoon
Involves pushing and shoving adamantine moods
Into a mousehole of a closet.
The syntax of churches
Like needles in the white mist, classified
Ventilation, anti-corrosive rituals.
She was wearing a pair of lunettes
And a red question was posing itself
Between her brisk stature
And the solemn texture of the sidewalk-colored sky.