Last
knowledge of dusty cloud inverted yes
to an automatic no. It was the
weather; a drag, a beanpole, things left clean hid in the shade and in between
the ledges we bent back our brains. We tried to relief anger, tired to pledge
home, worries of losing set principals, following no guidelines, and husky in
the flack of yielding nada, for a moment to bend the image out, and contort
into the shape of a yes, I'll drive
you home, yes, I'll pick you up, yes, I'll carry you over the harbor with
my trapeze heart and sickly nomenclature. I feel so ill to tie up the past. The
ends are little frayed strings and winding through the course of life they
become gruesomely familiar. Fill me with hostile plentitudes. Particularly
sharp licks of the tongue, scratching, bruising and bashing but weary for the
ledges to stand. I will the wall closer to home and pull the outside shape
around me, punishment, for building stable shapes can also will collapse into
existence. I am the broken lip of your nose, the fractured bone in your arm,
that splint for straightening out the crooked aftermath of haymakers and
prosthetic teeth. Your dent of head is shiny with purple lashes. You tossed
infrastructure in the way and water has always been more powerful than any
human.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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