ReRites (a green pramful of mechanisms) [June 2017]

IT WAS THE RAPTURE Deep in the roots of poem — a blue sweet elemental being seamed with reason from outside. radio orchards family geometry levers, strolling with the scenes verve perfunctorily, from the window The hills swoon. And soot turns into a phantom in the mouth of the panther. Hearing the stars on a luminous sea, Camp in that dawn whimper tense formed over earth and home. I am a poet of old magazines, styles and prairies! a disposable spider ointment a unicorn raging on the floors of sunset adagio unalloyed sleep blessings: Sharp words juices in ill-sorted nestlings tickle my bones. this blinding solitude in time I leave the pale tangled bones on Kudzu hissing, leave my teacher’s slow dead stub face, my senses falling like rain, an incongruous paralyzed erasure. The settling wind hangs in old fields. An aggregate without scent a blackened drum of the dark. A sterile idea Clutched a green pramful of mechanisms Blossoming in the morning.