Friday, July 11, 2008

dccxxxix

Wake up German, the sky’s
in retaliation.   We, its sleep,
stumble upon the muses...
a muse stumbling.   Like my own
clean hole, something falls
with the scrape of the pavement.

A dead limb, we wake up
in a wake.   Hearts do things
hearts do in poems without
muses.   Say it implodes,
takes its pills before the
gentrification.   Rights the

skies, runs its noses.   Checks
its e-mail for mortar.   Dreams
are like that, they’re okay
like we are, hosed on a Saturday
morning.   Defiance.   Perturb-
ation.   Sleek bird calls to the

rust.   A pleasant scrape, a check
for a hundred sows and blouses.