The fever cluster and the naked stroke are not
what it's about now or should be about from their
tangled midst a common shudder rises, loosely enough
to rattle one or two empty cradles, before sinking
down into the ground of cult history.  Strange to look at
like a row of upturned necks, hard vein thrusting in each into which
another mouth has been sliced and gapes with them; into it
are thrust the handkerchiefs of soluble fame and spicant inedibles.
An early willow-wand broke loose from the wall hungered
after by the suns redacted set, steeping its spot in the town.
Because the idea is simple, and after all none too generous.
The salmon farm is here, where the wash is good.  The rows
upon rows of tiny mouths whisper closed and opened sending
their silence like soft blistering drops over the cove; we eat
before reading, having lifted the girls' fan-tails to scoop regular drupes
of dark brown egg, shift them, and spread them, straight from
the club to our table.  I might regard the pale glow of loss to which
my life has added little in recompense with wonder, and bless
these small manifests of desire with a gentle kiss. 	

The East Village Poetry Web
Andrea Brady