from Coronelles – Set 2

Then, BEAT neurotic sky, sore
happy little friends.
O, little lovers, mask
to tweezer out the gutter
sour, slipping
liquid voices, shield
its wrenching tenancy
corrupted, faces in the stones
its cacophony: A dusk: A
beating: A feeling line,
O, pretenders
let’s go down shine on blast
pretends itself a feeling.

I brought a tongue to the meeting.
Began to backslide again.
Somewhere in the memory bank.
The motion of a celebrant.
I threw myself in the bin.
A finger tapping the window.
Emaciated
eldership speaking of commerce
waves beating at a ship in peril
lower the life
raft higher and
higher here is the corn. My bonnie lies over
the stuttering storm: Weather conditions deteriorate.

I’m better now, & time spreads away
across the flood. If you hate flying ant day,
we hate you. I was having flying ant day-
dreams in the flying ant day-
care flying ant-
ibiotics to the depot, & over the millions
of grasses, back along
the unyielding year. The drunken morning
blustered in & spoiled against the shine. Sapphqui
stares up through swinging emerald drops:
You were singing over
me four green fields, flying ants, a fleet
of deans, the little splitting waves cut up to blood.