the delimma of the zillionth poet.

for john milton

 

 

I smelled a baby (out of no-where)

and, trust me,

it's like nothing else.

All controlling and attitude;

 

sticky stink snapdragony.

An arrangement of foliage leaves

within the bud

 

And

 

had nothing else near to compare it to.

The arches on the dorsal side of Whitman.

Frost, wet and laying unprotected

in a bright wood. The petticoats

of Dickinson. All my version

of the Bible translated.

 

And there is that point,

while carrying a virgin close for

its versification and prosody, when you

want to say to the ultrahigh deity

 

that I get this exceedingly good story.

"That the very essence of truth

is plainness and brightness".

Reviews

[Tree]

I feel a deep sadness when I come across a poem like this; important, brimming with deep reverence for memory and all the powerful minutia that triggers it. And that all along it was in our midst, but somehow, you missed it. This poem blew over me like a cool, dingy breeze, kissed me, like a butterfly. I wish I had another way to describe this poem, brother. Except to say, reading the poem is almost not enough. You want to experience it. You want to, breathe it.

Provoking, moving work.