Thursday, May 27, 2004


but run and fast
as if the beating stick were a spigot
in your hand

as if you understood
the sea could both froth and spew
and wind thus conspire with moon to command

heaven knows what true course
because of course we do not steer
by weed any more nor

does the steersman dangle hand
over the

we know not cold from warm
currents run amok
en masse we are stuck

to an old formula
our best an ancient
crepuscular creeping

we weep
     bleed, at best throw
green, resistant, grows wherever seed to

weed can
red behind closed mind
until blood does

not free, clots to the anger curve
the numbers a bomb calculus
an ugly eventual unsolvable bombs-equation

a spluttering
but run and fast
so that the falling guts don’t getcha

oh sad for the old steerage ways
tears for the blasted concrete ways
oh that the water running through your fingers is

a spear hole abomination
run and fast the film forward                       so
that you may creel the cicatrices


Comments: Post a Comment

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?