the curl

 

 

Can you tell me please about treasure,

where inscribed, valuabes without document

are kept under dry blankets.(?)

A polygon where fabled, 12 sided

rhythems are kept;

gold,

pearls,

the precious, etcetera,

you get it.

Where the workshops of

fabric or electronic e-zine,

eyelets for the strings of

breathing jewels. Or the

current fashion magazine,

accepted and prevalent

just for the moment.

Or,

the fabled strong man who

kept his cigarettes in the rolled

fold of his tee-shirt, that yes,

looked so cool.

But at night,

in the coils of the Ezra,

dressed in womes clothing,

lipstick and all. There were

eyewitnesses who said they

saw him come from behind

the curtain,

making no eye-contact

but holding conversations as if

his fabled narrative had been

dragged along the sea bottom.

"Tell me of the treasure-trove;

the prose, the sustained posture,

the trawling for new fish"

he would say.

 

But not the incessant twirling of bees behind the shed.

Only the twinkling of his sisters jewelry,

including her cherished ring.

Who wrote round, cinquain, five line

stanzas of birds or large blooms

all bounded by the curves of

the raging river.

Just cracks in the brood.

He had lost his curling iron

in this 90 degree heat

and that's why he looks so

faithless.

 

But don't we all have secrets?

Large ships with no coxswain,

of tree-foil leaves of satisfaction;

bread,

Christ,

the saw for the wooden grain?

Like

the tree-sparrow that has a

black spot on his ear coverts,

Confederate gray,

as wall on the bank of earth.

Wont we all

sooner or later, lift the veil?

 

Young poets,

teach me to love.

Reviews

[Emily B]

oh, yes