Tuesday, July 6, 2010

poem || Jeff Harrison

Seaward Grudge

what you carry in your clothes
is not gold, driver, it's bones

in my ledgers the State
is so hot for, officer,
each blunder is made by
only five bales of bread

bread blunders of orange ouch,
vast, vast is the relenting dent...
of that dent: I'm in this, & in brass
& waltz-like of malignity, tho I
called for something light, driver,
you'll leaf razzle, rust and pocket

this grows out, map, out & into files...
driver, whose visible groves were these?
the missing accident daughter? well, then,
her leaps MUST have been impenetrable...

there were more than one? surely
a couple of them at least will
top this writing with wish words
who half in kicks grow skill - hist!,
someone rouses my syllables:

wind my names up, you
seaward grudge, you
kissing-foot thing,

move along now,
missing accident daughters,
your speech is live, mine
is reluctant willows, Herr
B's is flowers in hand...

flowers & hand: they,
the flowers, love hand?

missing accident
daughters, here
your pieces roam to
ghost that low form
of Herr Bibliothekarius,
so this poem's sudden guest
can dream his eye chirps Logic's sun
instead of Curiosity's eyes... oh, &
here you'll think understanding away, Sirens

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