poem || Jeff Harrison

Medieval Curls

watching names,
they're what I'll approach,
dark old astonishments,
shrill wonders, may
they be lighter in your palm, Jeff
I admit this past my longterm air,
my palms barefoot again
tho gore from
my rinsed hands breathes almost names
mammoth again and exhumed
Futilears palm, Fickleyes paw
spinning groans groomed into grass
Fickleyes gleam, all nearby can be imagined,
ordinary first, the crying color now second,
an ear among holes one didn't pink
myself?! spider what martyred donkey?!
it is a bit unusual,
I often face down the baroque,
saying, "we're one in the same,
objects by pages"
me, I dive into their reaches
many a conviviality keeps written lines abob
I gallop alongside their thinks,
float loans to mapmakers
never was perfect?! nonsense, entirely!!
me, I pace what they picture
I'm on hold for
"speak, medieval curls"
(animals dimmed out) more time