A Poem Where The Words Are Mostly
Made Up But the Meaning Is Not
Gutterhollow roll of the last of the day
when every silence
is permissible,
when words are timberladen thistlebombs
carried on the breath, I am without a cart for dreams.
It seems I've hoboed high
this day, and slurred the
razorridges: blurry as a curd
inside the whey and dropped an eiderdown
too soon, and fleece-eyed- lazy as a gentleman's dog in help
yourself sun- I've slept
the ransom through. What's left, a G clef
major chord of whored remembrance with hardly
a half-donned haversack
to pack it in, a Pilated hand-washed heliotrope
of shuttered, moping light. I am a sight
for sorest soul. I am the magpie and the mole swept up
and gone to SleepyTown.
