Who is sympathic and abiding and
versatile with this sense of human
essential to and with this hand,
this hand, even though hemmed
and contracted in an arc
Who continues to hover assuredly?
Knots do not whisper in art galleries,
not even in the presence of the wispy
notice in arrears, as the next fee etches
out three riddles. “Oh good lord,” sounding
lowsome so low to my gold enchambered
housel, until forever gives the footed
heart of your sweetmouth delivered
into old seeded juices still abiding
Then forget the doom, the grave is hiding,
while the past has been a diligent second
to his little brother Death, and death
puts together a good peace for those
stilled and vicious,
felled in bay and fern and ewer.
Abide, affright, and atone, anon.
Beat, bemoan, but bend.
Bequeath boats to boards.
Bruise, unhint, unwhisper all offers
to fear better words, or wilt.
Chinoiserie binds you cold to bell
and air. Air out a pie with spears,
serve it up gulping, enough, enough.
Count leverage in this town as akin to
a hopping catch-all. No sooner it strikes
up but the house is besieged with eager
harmless armies of circles sealing this
small room, as sheared wings whip
through sheening eras, brushing the
pitch of never rested illness in hours
breathing flame filed from ivory
roused out of early slumber.
If you’re all at nines,
respond with eights, abiding, abrading
incoming causeways sequenced by
englossed excisions of free will.
copyright © 2010 lcmt