March 28, 2008

The Moth on my Chest

 

 

 

                        rises                  as motif    as Oath or Oar

 

the aeronautics    of                 sour/ce, Circes

 

                        if]   if]   if]             then blas

                                                              pheme as in

 

 

            a passionless boat                           fruit that knows no

 

better than crest

red bird feather

plate tectonics …

                                                            

                                                 the anemone’s blue arm wand waves

 

au revoir, slow as                 

 

                        cellulose streams ribbons

                                                            across the moon

 

                                                            

 

                                    and I wanted to be called

 

            urge       or    actor

                        or at most        the page    not the Carbon Yell

                                    

 

                        like every light

                                                             always dims

 

                        infinitesimal decimal

                                    case in point

 

            the pen is a muscle                    with its inconsistent Must

 

 

—Sandra Simonds

Posted by dwaber at March 28, 2008 02:46 PM