The peasant of old was content with
rebellion, with skirting the fronds
of power as it descended cupfroth from
up high, with skimming the sheen
of lava as it settled down in crusty
sleep, but she bristled the unkempt
bristle often enough to prime her
peep for growl when it’s time.
Distant grab of light sun, trickle
Fancy drop of lint, come hither!
Come hither, silt born of rum, calf
Of retribution, some sad tin rubble.
Come hither, far corners of light,
Dependencies of near, shoals of boon.
And when you sit past the club of noon,
And when you silt allowances that rust,
Feel the luck of treble, bass of kin,
Mix of barn-stacks combing hay of numb.
And when you sit past the bowl of soon,
And when you silt accruals of gash/rub,
Feel the suck of nibble, tin of pain,
Mix of river-beds numbing sand of sink.
For every misstep that primes an obdurate
chalkline bent on rivet and stone, there is
a river; for every grey moon standing right
there, right there, there is a brook; for
every bard and every mistimed word that inks
the barren page, there is a stream, and it flows.
If you could extricate the song from
The leaf and root of song, you might
As well sing it, keeping the salient notes
In a pocket: the stealth will warm it enough
in the beakers of an exfoliated chemistry, a
Singed out physics, and a defeated
Math rounded off to a single decimated place.
Where is the keep, the stalk, the
Pouch of the peacekeeper, the
Revered pulse of fox and cherub?
Where is the seep, the chalk, the
Reaping of gouged out verse forms
Competing with skylines and streams?
Where is the deep, the hawk, the
Feline misadventures calling you
In the first person singular, I?