poem || Philip Byron Oakes

Manner of Speaking

Coaxing etiquette out of malaise. Watered down to a giggle catching
sight of private parts of the play. A tangle’s chance to grow legs for the
journey. Crannies stuffed with promises to bury the headline in a shadow
of itself. A tock’s first hint of a tick in its past. Amidst fictions of death in
passing, pushing straw men to shed light, like burden blazing trails to
smitten hallelujahs in the dark. Keeping the dream alive on borrowed
air for purposes obscured from view. To shelter the sequence of come
and gone, to see the balance find its shadow in compliance with the tilt.
Keeping collapsible landscapes underfoot. Steps into shoes keeping
pace irrelevant upon arrival. The faint scent of an image, auditioning
to trigger the memory of an unscheduled day in court. Falling for the
weight of the worldly. The gravitas. Scouting routes through the
hollow for echoes run rampant in the cold. A peremptory unveiling
sowing seed in the boneyard, mulled for clues in the round and down
to business. Naked off the tongue. Baring secrets of the fall into arms
without touching, the fear of breaking the bubble calling for more.
Putting the squeeze on a pedestal. The emphasis upon a relic in clean
underwear, for swearing into the shape of tomorrow. The stuff of
which without there isn’t. A way of being next to with the empty
all around. Calling on the dead of night to join in. Filled with lack
of mostly, adding up to room to breathe the nostrum in so many
words. Predicating the gist upon inflection buying time at a
discount in the hurry to reason why.