Do you still feel disinterred
sun-burns?
That was the cock-eyed July
I foreswore double-vision and quit
cold two
Dozen dependencies and you
Were so impatient with the
hum-colored sun
You were only rather
Irritated at my having been born at
all
First is the sweet fetid dust of
these
Quiet goddamn poems
beautifully
Wilting on a bedside table
Now is when you say
Summon the sun's guitars for us
Regardless of the ashes
Where did we put my cigarettes?
Now’s our chance for a little cry
Small dry sobs we bend and warp
Joyously into pinwheels and
whirligigs
Hot dog!
Dreamily pernicious where you come
from sure
But twice as mean the dirt
That taught me to chew
Second is the eagerness of silence
A desire waiting for the moment
It will learn how to speak
I suppose we have
Very little to say
I don’t know yet
But we will
No comments:
Post a Comment