Tuesday, August 30, 2016

two poems:

Hemingway floats,

            Now this old man
            has ripened sweetly.
                        Jane Munro, Blue Sonoma

A sextet tale of cats, domesticated. Sing: poly, poly. The sun sets and it rises, also. Made this day from earth. The body stands, like butter. Pounding, chest. Inside that loft, such Nobel composition. Studio, arranged. Head in hands in hands in hand. Tumbler, this knot of bone. Such contradiction: iron fireplace, this heat. Invention of the fur, the furl, paw telescopes. An extra claw. Sea-faring, doubtful mews. A line of craters, causes. Calm things, fathom. Christened. Pronoun, woman. Wife. A hard-back chair. Administers. What we might know of oracles. Penny function. His last red cent.


Every few days another moth appears.
Michael Lithgow, Waking in the Tree House

Meaning carries blood, an impact. Baby laughs. Her fingers lift a leaf, to mouth. Rose and Wren, entangled. Quoting: happenstance. Water, audience. The threat of rain. Angora: tension, pulled. Knelt down, sharpened. Gravity: a zero orbit. Tulips, disassemble. Sweep. Ornamental; tree-lined, narrative. An atmosphere. Sunrise. Flicker, fibre. Trembled. Somewhere, swings. The clouds were mountains. Woolen. My body is a conifer; my heart a sugar maple. As long as there are facts. Dappled, snow-stitched. Cut from whole cloth. Fly wheel, treadle, maidens. A wooden lift. Mother-of-all.

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