A most enchanted I dunno.
As in: days of. Passing out, your
lemon peels made perfect bookends.
As in: many splendid mishaps of.
Your little thorn-spiked punch.
Under a lintel with always
an of or a with & an and
to bring us close to sparrows.
O, but. Gasp. Without you, there’s
nothing to slander in Xanadu. Lately,
the connective has been
knocked out of bounds, as in:
there are no more bounds in this town,
but lots of eraser nubs, lots of nefarious
scribbles. Somehow, it follows that
what falls inside, sips a tumbler
of jello covered pins; a toaster fussing
over squirrels, fussing over crumbs
in corners & thumbs in sockets, spigots
spouting cardamom & ice. Call back, I am
busy forging signature hairdos
& teaching an evening course on morass;
I have no time for a toe-stub or your
pinky-stung rebuff. What’s worse, pasty glare,
or pastels in October? Most days,
I revisit the blanks of the Why
& have blackout served with raw
onions, stretched out where an arch was built
to support our bonsai amore & broke for want
of stupor. But leave that space be or be
gone. Believe in it. Put your red pencils away.
Author Discusses Poems