Wednesday, June 26, 2013

The Poetic Impulse

Oblique and so direct
that it erects
the phallus
in the pen
and in the poem's flesh –

so fresh
that it cannot remember
what it is supposed to think –
it cannot stop itself –
it clocks itself,

then sinks
into a rampant timelessness
through whose one tiny
aperture a picture blooms
into the mind –

a precious
find – what is the word
for it? inflated floating
beach toy, tire
round the middle,

under which
an ancient
impressionistic memory
as vivid as it is abstract
extracts six

orange-colored fish
against an azure blue –
and somehow you entirely
are in it and are absent
from it all at once.

You are a dunce
who can’t explain
a single thing.
And yet you


No comments: