a selection from Fragmented Olio
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.
-in is to
well in the language of nece
of what only holds within
the sedated speech of contemporary reason
rotates and bends
within the benign aggregates
of confirmed synesthesia