August 15, 2008

The Poem from the Poem: Ars Poetica II

Mountains into further mountains, where you will turn your attention soon.
In the antique words or the words for antiques.
And mountains instead of real mountains.
Stay with me here.
Into the careful edge.
And the sleeping roses.
Words into the crossing of the mountains.
Into pictures in the distance.
To lose your sobriety.
Our broken and useless bodies.
Mountains as the name for that place.
The River of Poems, or True Black.
Into an alphabet of closures.
Who could help but love the mountains.
Mountains into working these mountains.
Mountains into an affair with the wife of a former aide, into get this party started, these words
          from the words when you get home into pockets of these words.
When you get to the other side, into your head like a stream on those mountains.
Three more animals.
Infinity more animals.
And what I had to say, into every page, the alphabet of mirrors.
On that bridge surrounded by pigeons.
The yellow angel fish hiding behind the yellow rock.
The speaking bridge against the words.
Was it called the name or singing the name?
And the mountains into a conversation where Im still waiting.
Who decided on a series of questions over the speaking words, these mountains into some kind
          of future where I think Ive lost my way.
Poems weve named These Little People.
Poems to help you sleep.

—John Gallaher

Posted by dwaber at August 15, 2008 03:11 PM