Monday, February 1, 2010

poem || Jeff Harrison

Your Paradise-Wreath Is Whose Unanswered Remorse?

the question of Night's luxuriant birds

the studied reply:
bent best to methods
gaze'd under her Not Tree Glow,
and Virginia, lies clean alive
then comes up bellowing
"stars are my like and I -- e'en my atoms muddy"

O Herr Bibliothekarius ransack my loveliest words

repulsions henceforth only, for
I love perfect behavior
the clocks run soundly but
have lost their mittens

stars tell the clocks are merry,
Herr Bibliothekarius, but
no brains love solid waking

Nature grown a styled blot -- Virginia,
lapse downward & come up bellowing
"my lies, tho clean alive, are insufficient to
conquer the Dragon, the Ghost Sky"

Herr Bibliothekarius,
listen, chirps Virginia,
foaming me red are
your blowflies
with their

luxuriant birds, is
the studied reply =

Herr Bibliothekarius
at last
chips in

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