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Their
stares bleep our it's chic
to check, to carry
on. Snow. At the
Pine Pageant, the backstage
shindy. but our
cells are bleat.
Our rubbers get vertical.
Owl. The old
world crèche like a
bomb from When the
piebald will bloom.
Our codes tolling.
Rum. Owl. We are prone, and smitten to spontaneity. I read an essay delineating the uneasy invention of erasers. Crepuscular light has the aspect of mint jelly. A spare trombonissimo diminishes to one long caw. A grain of grit escapes the gears. Our Godmother hopes we attend the Ball. The cat dips her antennae into the milk when she sips. The sky uses some clever methods to keep us on track. We all look pretty much the same when we fall. But I swear, I never received the grading rubric. The fragment is part of the relief. Finally, we tumble into the domino's pip. Gather round Tiger, Radio Free America is on air. The village
used a bank as a sea
wall. This may blushed
the lower part bled across
the eye-half. antique
chop-sockies. Her mug
was disfigured or weeping,
at not much. Her tongue
chirred our air So we
supped above and water
bussed home
A mourning
dove flaps
Peter Jay Shippy's book, Thieve's Latin, will be published by the University of Iowa Press in April 2003. His work has appeared in Poetry Ireland, Denver Quarterly, and Harvard Review, among others. He teaches at Emerson College. |