a storm would have shook it free
(response to Kit Kelen’s “The First Post”)
it was a circular start
somewhere in the middle
as if a new name would
change the back story
my bookshelf fell over
in the storm
the pile had its own aesthetic
told us something about ourselves
our atmosphere
the random joy that cuts us into segments
this wasn’t the first
truth be told
when I pretended to understand
the darkening landscape
a quick glance at your brow
your knitting hands
language enough
the widening gap
who could pay, who couldn’t
that rapid climb to power
every rung of the ladder crumbling
beneath his swelling legs
you cried in frustration
worked in a fever
ignoring the sunlight that woke
the hormones
I wanted the world
to be real
no matter the stark logic
of spin
the trees were humming
silently, a chaos growing
just beneath the bark
that was the beginning
a pile pretends random
ReplyDeletewe, as if of nowhere
under skin, winning
knit hands to begin
hum a tree
work fever
the juggernaut on without me
each new truth comes telling
those sap suckers won't shut up -
princes and greengrocers
brown baker
red eye
whiskey drinker too
with tymbals
as to masque
or tournament
late medieval
all as real as I can see
off to a flying start