a selection from Fragmented
Olio
from Bas-relief
I last
looked at
myself,
and you stated my rhythm was slow. You wrote
my voice could use a smoothed
alteration. I refuse to listen and
the landscape of my syllables
obtained their rasp from the origin
of an acclimated fusion.
A narrative of yesterday’s moment
A burning return.
A
novice gratitude. A
totality
of swarm. A
dragonfly
wears blurred suspension.
A self in my mirror rotates.
A hope is the configurative
tongue of pious acclimation.
I’ve
ballad in the
memory of home.
To beg
-in is to
contain
what
curls
well in the language of nece
-ssary
departure
of what only holds within
hallucinatory hands—
the
sedated speech of
contemporary reason
rotates and bends
within the benign aggregates
of confirmed synesthesia
Fine experimental poetry that flows.
ReplyDeleteFine experimental poetry that flows.
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