LOGAN FRY


                                     



LOOMING BEFORE ENCORE




I brush his pelt, it smells.
    I wash his skill
before a Taurus, green tears
commence on many balconies.

    The graduate skein
on lecture sure sallied
and I said.

    Units mount
    atop his burglary.
The family statistically at home.

  Onstage, scrabbling under wet roses
  smiling, limning, locusts scorning

the entire indeterminacy of teenaged Yeats

who kept in caves,
who mows on eves
  seasonable grass curio, really though, smiling.

Coterie, he I blesseth, I am unpressured,
this is how I choose.
  I squeak pungent him
into his shoe and speak for him only
  when he is spoke in two.






TYPO 30