Tuesday, May 14, 2013

poem || Jeff Harrison

This Great Unkempt

what dialogue-volk are gone to shadow?
just us, the inside story on the pop shadow
broken into a dotted little machine
tapping the half-clattering pastorals
all the beetles planted by caped dogs
clutching the horizons in their sides
& doffing their indoor forehead-marsh caps
achy blessing & a river of pencils light up this
Great Unkempt, skilled in hunger &
thinking triumph, the kings of the dead
in a profound freeze & unpleasantly themselves
noir-kissing our cut faces, agrarian shades
enough of trains beneath leaves all devious!
said Virginia, that wreckage wrapped in white!
a retreat song scored cold, split-tongued cattle
were never found beneath this moon, tho
they interest each paradise dreamed by Wormswork
the gap in their tongues is ascendant to
our moon, the left 7-league boot of Wormswork is
walking by itself, ablaze with reclusiveness
its walk does more space than seven leagues, and
fizzles serpent angels, its shadows noisy hands had
dazed are enough to hold down spying owls sent
by the head librarian of Betty Grable's tome emporium

No comments:

Post a Comment