poetry, typography

anelegy

this ancient winnow of mine;

bare sieve, collective sigh:

the brutal eye-said night, where shuffles here

the feet that were mine;

these corrosive pillars,

unmined the connection they imply, a throat bared to the sigh,

where the nigh that could find and place

all those breathless bodies bedded to

the mar bled toll;    ;           ;

*

my mother in a paper box, perfect square,

exact 6” x 6” x 6”

rationally enough post-9/11 fears led the airport security inspector to inspect her. cotton swab run swift, post-some-chemical-dipped, along its seams; I wondered, how do you seal a cardboard box containing someone’s mortal remains? the rage. the rage at him.

my father then, less freshly dead, by now I am

both late and gleaming; shiny, crystal-edged.

you see? dip your fingers: here and here. now run your fingertip around my rim.

do not I sing?

“My plane,” I said, “I’m late for my plane.”

*

what then.

a pale hen lays no brown eggs.

a pall hung over L.A. None drowned today.

a ball swung. at missed. the doctor owned

naught but toes. one tires

of declaratives.

*

that is, it.

*

a pale star hangs

, taut

upon the rim of Salem – “salaam” – amen – ‘s morn

ing

now rain.

the bell’s the clearest peal.

*

re. a. son

‘s

a finenest enabler

what else can make us w(r

)i

se after this day

?

*

wUnderUsSmessofThis

HaIrLiGHGHGHGHT

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