poem || Jeff Harrison

 
Ianthe
 
unconscionable child, in a laugh show them the bird
your distance hacks into a regular form &
the third remaining time should’ve sped to your side
vicissitudes commuting their dears,
offerings shut them up auditorium of drudgery,
nine hundred donations spread for bows,
even quizzical bows the work forecast to
native-empire-knightingale chords
uncompassed frustration buried in earth & sky
satellite abed, good Ianthe is dead
perdition your due on this earth
Ianthe yet a spectre stored in the world,
her dawn is kept to a minimum
the slightest soliciting expects the World
plainly, Ianthe, animation is a burning present
& animation is a thing of the past, Ianthe,
it's no use to number figures the less to
fulfill the market of venom =

this should
exceed
the bodies
considered
succulent