| for James Wright The poet will seek to clothe herself in sparrows. A motor in each leaf distills autumn’s engines and we’re off. Upstart cartoon morning; these various roosters scratch inside the eyelids and declare beneath the streetlamps that their moats are filled with vowels. That the life alone is not wasted but rich with a pageantry of else. Who absconds with our best sense and seizes us by the throat as we untangle ourselves from lovers and, draped in fever, split the night into halves? Each contains a commercial advertising just that. Despite his tactics, fully rejecting experience the candid creator winces at the audience’s heightened passing. Remain, in secret, a pea of concern, in some harbor of ghostly direction. There lurks an I among those hours. Copyright © 2014 by Larry Sawyer. Used with permission of the author. |
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