 |
| 'In the Woods' Michael Hutter © |
we turn ourselves
hands on wet clay
wheeled surreys
foot pedal driven
open windows
a given with
shard palace
thrown ways
what poem did
slid, hid view
flew the coop
cuckoo clock
glockenspiel
what we did
revealed
to ourselves
that dreaming into
a cup of coffee in the morning
under a cold Spring bright Sun
streamed us in through
another old window
more coffee more peeing
seized door a fee organ grinders
were not necessarily monkeys
in bell hop clothing
they were children in masks,
Oh star a tasked
with grasps of fooleries
and stolen keys for the fishbowl
eventually, Easter April
cul de sac parties
stood me apart
from usual neighborly emcee
a truer soiree is a place of hay
where we could be most anything
to thrive in a breath or two around to say
sermon roe, calming clam shell, till to hoe
wrapped warm our flesh
as destiny hors d'oeuvres
here, we are wearing bones, tracing fingers to hollows
wandering in the wonders of how
oleoresin mimics death flowers
we were rapt watch a wrapped coffin wet bar reach us
she excused herself and left a lingering
scent to cleave centipedes
sent two peas would she leave
me here where the flowers wear me too
I am not really sure what a poem means
to do or be at the end of all things
womb beginnings ring those ends as
a trivially simple way of saying
I don't know what's next
but I am learning
no guesses thus
saying to myself
mostly, a laced any
thing blesses us
a held note
silence
after the poem
EJR ©
No comments:
Post a Comment
Hello there ...