|
What Story Wasn't Told
The way ash drifts on air,
to be surprised by it.
Waiting.
Where do
reasons go?
For anything,
any filament at all.
The rain falls on leaves.
There are cars moving into the light,
beneath street light
temporarily, then
the door closes,
gone.
Córdoba
after Lorca
Córdoba!
Lean, solitary.
Dark jackal, grand moon.
And a sea of tuna in my alfalfa.
Antique sepias lose the roads,
announcing illegals at Córdoba.
Oh my road tan like lager!
Oh my valorous jackal!
Oh my death I espy!
Ants of lager at Córdoba.
Lean, solitary.
Call Me Two-poems
1
I dedicate this poem
to the moon-pony
who plays
a banjo
made of
gall.
2
My amphibrachic
household
prime root of
my discord and
happiness I
couldn't live
unloosed from.
|
