Poem #14: Untitled #2

Untitled #2

When I built you from
marble I fooled myself.
(But the wind
knew better.)

We break, mind’s loose gravel
spilled upon our feet.

A compound crisis is
the leather dragon,
dogwood feathers, and
a murderous incline. (We won’t.)

Hollow steel drums bounce
above in mid-century containers,
the royal blue rust, an omen
from our new god.

The orb spins. (That
is its definition.) Recursive identities
make facial flash cards, but who am I,
lost in another alligator allegory.

Excess truths tie borders,
this ship, that ship.

The last photograph ever.

Rooms around us
house other stories that
may have fit before but
won’t again. (Don’t call me dour,
I just live here.)

Turbulent laundry, the fifth
of July, and a wheel
we can’t unload.

Horse breadth occurs in hands.

Repeat, but
the word you want is
mistake. Tell me the Nile.

Origins are missed truths,
bets, and beads of sweat.

Don’t hire a band. (The you is
symphonic, and the I is still me.)

@NBF 4.27.2009

rockman

Providence, 2003

——————–

Notes

This poem used to be a paragraph.

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