Steven Ross Smith
fluttering. 41 it is simple, really. the milk carton, empty. he's cranky in the morning. these two not related. forgive me. imageless. empty of ... pictures? sight? the eye wants to anchor back. against the governing thrust. well, not exactly. more hesitant nudge. this striving for a disintentioned sprawl. pushing past the barrow or bough. amnesic. disinfoming as I move. I cough. my hands stiffen to the breath. none of this is like poetry. it is easy to delay, the vessel empty. a yellow egg sits on my sill. it is the shape of eternity. there is no centre at this edge. that bush flaming in my eye reminds me I have come up to morning light. wind is brisk. fingers slip. you were angry with delay. furious. used up by the slack. I recompose, listen, but the notes are imperceptible. my ear is plugged. damaged drum. pardon me does not help as I am striving to hear beyond. or am I deceiving myself? nothing helps. the pouring milk is soundless. what can you expect of a vacuum? everything fills, corrects itself eventually. doesn't it? blue jay jackhammers the sunflower head. gulps. is gone in a cerulean flash. what is the order of things? I have no coffee. black, it's a void I can't stomach. everyone and all their conversations are drifiting to my cochlea. why can't I hear? so much for distant whispering. so much for black and red and dependency. even the jay does not shriek. I put on my coat. cough in chilled air. walk through my breath to the store.
|The East Village Poetry Web