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


Providence, 2003



This poem used to be a paragraph.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: