They invented solace to coincide with advances
made in various tureens of measurement. Yup.
You don’t understand. One thing leads to another.
The cool night air brings a trace of wood smoke.
I keep a diary. I have done so since I was twelve.
I complete one diary then immediately start another.
Gosh the world is swell or maybe it isn’t, maybe
I keep saying only what I’m told: the world is swell.
They perverted solace to coincide with advances
made in varying internments of atonement. Yelp.
You can’t understand. One thing pleads to another.
The cool night hair brings a brace of weed berm.
I seek an aviary. I have done so since I was twelve.
I find one aviary then immediately go toward another.
Harsh the world is swill or maybe it isn’t, maybe
I keep braying only what I’m told: the world is swill.
Jon Cone is a Canadian poet, editor, and writer who lives in Iowa City. He has an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. His recent works include New Year Begun: Selected Poems (Subpress Editions: Brooklyn, NY, 2022); Liminal: Shadow Agent, pts 1 and 2 (Greying Ghost, Salem, MA, 2022); An Ice Cream Truck Stalled at the Bottom of the World: a collection of plays/written with Rauan Klassnik (Plays Inverse, Pittsburgh, PA 2020); Cold House (espresso, Toronto, ON, 2017).
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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