Somewhere West of Feeling

I am always surprised
by the mouth feel and flavor
of honey. I always think
it will taste more like you,
and less like bees.

the pollen that dusts
off the brow, the low-down
consequence of loving
perfectly, like thistles,
an imperfect blossoming. I

trespass through the open market,
the meadows and Junebugs,
the fireflies of humid humming
and harrowed furrowing,
 
like warrens beneath my
foundation stone. you get to be
like g-d everyday. casting
manifesting fishing twine,
like the white accrue
of late season dandelions,

before the stems go black
from rot, the dead grass,
the path trampled
from my devoted following.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

you use everything to build your constructions, bits of nature, plants and insects, the senses, the seasons, all
materials, like an discriminate painter with a totally indiscriminate brush or that sculptor who "sculpted" the Watts Towers...all this so that what you say is idiosyncratically and beautifully you...

[Doctor JKC]

All senses engaged.
The first stanza speaks of love
less engaging than other feelings
and has a sort of sad tone

Excellent!
Jack

[W.k.kortas]

I found the line breaks a little odd, but not off-putting, and certainly nothing that detracts from the piece. Maybe the tightest of the pieces of yours that I've read to this point--"loving perfectly" and "imperfect blossoming" are packed closely together. There is clearly a fin-de-siecle feeling here, the spectacle of the end of something. The meter and flow are lyrical, almost musical. Wonderful, wonderful writing.