SUNK ODE
What
kind of neural handshake
binds brilliance? What
word convergence
causes trembling
catapults towards
proximity to
itself would
bend? What
quiet recklessness
adherence to exposure
quips for eyes' aches? What
coordinates
grooved slippage
through a moth net into
an ear I spoke
as an abstract imp
wretching
hushes. As when falls
are blushes, plucked
chords of harp
-strings shuddering
their harp. What
slosh of ions leaps
from
breath to scream
to sleep
a ray of re in
rings chords fingers
stroked set like sediment
in a river's ear.
Like
hunch; One's first sense of
resemblance.
What
plush droop of petal
could cherish you? What
graced gutturals
conflict? What
shrewd profusion
of spilt love
reeks like what
sunk stems pushed
out
into
their saving
crystal? What
calamity is
today's concern
slips out what net
swept it. What
flower doesn't blossom
in perpetual war. What
dragged thumb sweeps
sleep into Aeolian dream.
(if a seam scars our reels.)
What object distant
embrace eyes give veers
off its set path
for fears. Which is to say
a name sings
sings was an
astonishment at drops
are sheer.
What
flatter flatness winks
at the horizons of
this great diasporic event
of rounds of waves
of flicked materials
set unflagging
blooms in fugues. What
new thing is furling
around the absent
center? What
form purls to cochlea
through canal.
What
grace calls itself matters
only to itself, as strings sing,
as the vanishing
point of a ripple
pulses. What
could be flatter
than alternatives to
wordlessness.
What
will be gaunter gleams
peripherally
as statute edges,
forms of kinds of
images
of streams. What
past your bird-song braids
brims with sheepish ink, ant
nations crushed under
a dance's dancer's foot. What
“come” posed to you
its gash of wordliness,
a harpish scripture shrewdness
brandished like a piece
of pollen, dust as lapsed
gold god goaded
into a sigh of what
desire appetized the mind.
As in:
the frank pillow
Is domineering. What
fret abets. What
song would save itself
from wetness mornings
on the tulip stalk,
from seams of rust broke
past the bulb's thick bark.
Ail lair engitic tomb
of a repetitious blossoming
up. What
name still suits
that sickness sings? What
blue
ensues now
the abject rings? Content
yourself
to it, what
banished news of it
becomes you, dubbed, bowls
you over like a foe's
grief. A blank muscling
forth of blind shining
now reminds itself
its pith sinks surface-
ward for ear-oceans of
its oil. What
note doesn't
fire breath. What
void's in key. What
starved lung couldn't
cite its bullet. What
chord in alien ears
could please so easily?
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