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