poets should not become famous, skulls kept to a closure, spreading
word as if venom, spitting
visionary setting
momentary, greeting as if air a conclusion reached, crawling
branches lingering up the walls of sinatra blue, darkening hue
and there on the shore, a failing doctor. english teachers wash up on temperate sand
by the thousands
dead or dying
they do not know which, fluttering, st-stuttering fish
each one resembling an insult
thrown over thin shoulder like salt,
for luck,
for every time i wrote words strung together letters
and meant it. sincerely. my heart was in the thicket of negative-space, warming
to sounds of default and dainty lines, to
metaphors gone unreflected
loving greenery in deprecation-- then,
it began to rain, flowering in fish, fresh, scenery,
gone carried away
dying, doctor, where have you been
chilled to the bone and eaten by bigger dogs
victim of seats, pretention, silent house, treats lies excrete between rotten teeth
mouth going, going, gone--
rubble of analysis, of recorded word.