the closed mill.

 

 

 

Animals don't dream;

this I am certain.

Their minds are the

purest liquid.

They have demonstrated

their loyal tunes

as specks for

the abnormal.

As everything,

and every overtuned

coin,

happens right now.

Their no tomorrows

frighten me to

milk-fever.

 

 

I am cautious now to

touch the cat face,

or let the goldfish

larvae screem in

their own irregular juice.

I have even stopped

feeding the neighbors

dog pork bones,

milieu,

with whatever this

black s**t is that

looks like liquorice.

My wan

neighbor calls him,

or her, or he,

but it never minds and

only stops

it's assault on me

when tempted by

human feces

or puff pastry.

 

 

I feign the forgotten,

in fact the closed mill frightens me.

When you pass it before 6:30

you can hear the cries of

lost pets cowering

from the lighthouse;

reciting the

grinding action of

the apparatus.

That thing that cut

grooves,

made edges of wood

stick together and

made the steel

engines puff out

milky white glass.

 

 

I was told that Grandma

burried her old dog

next to Grandpa

in the church yard

where the trees have

prickly ledges,

 

but I don't believe it.

Reviews

[r. f. jordan]

this contains a gripping angst that almost comes across as measurable, the speaker seems entwined in a monologue that begs for relevance, and finds that reelevance in it's own gravity. this is heavy work, delivered with skill.

[Emily B]

there are days, i wish i didn't dream

this poem has a certain stature and height, had to stand on tiptoe to reach all of it - but the voice was sweet and true, i could come back to words like these every day for a very long time