ON THE FARM
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