In the TopographyMichael Rerick
Minute inertia, a bull raining golden showers of swans finding open places to fall into, circa 1900: “so much depends” on a steel mill for a soup can; the bomb sprouts in flowers, the horses and people (the bodies always slip away); an octopus reinvented through the many cracks of water is followed by a melting bird in a palm; an etherized metro in a city seen from an airplane or mountain car collects the air and at night dances with twinkles recorded in so many Log of Dead Birds: a Symbology of Concrete lining magazine racks, the dirty job of distribution a tune the dishwasher sings to the dishes: not yet not yet, yet not yet not yet not yet, yet not yet not yet, yet, yet all holidays over plates, glasses: chip’s tempting (the tiny squares of a windshield after an accident) so tempting the cupboard’s full a thumb presses over a garden hose a thumb swollen stiff along the marvelous slick eucalyptus tree bark Going home can never happen alone again, so many in the beginnings, hello my name is hello my name is and any combination of the two, synaptic along the neural pathway to feed, talk to the cat before making claim: cat, all optical on the table, paw prints on the paper.
Michael Rerick Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2019, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|