a narrowed screen
i sleep, ring
walk through the cold snow
oh, how low now

know no taste or burning smoke
calibrating earnestly, taken on white foam
(wrapped and desired, trapped so never inspired me)

and all the floating masquerades
they have no flaws, low laws
that only rush, along so tall
the mortar impedes, a straw seed buckle
and counting my widows, my web-stranded fingers

sleeping long with dreams a year
and cold feet un-noticed, conscious
infuriating lucidity
slick as, gradients point up
down, up

ragged black tacks run up broken backs
and slither so simply, saintly
fish sobs with the last pure water
only polluted with avid harp-songs,
inducted, induced, not inspired but sea-green
with devilish mephistic trickery

closing squares, in frightful foggy air
set me with seven-score leaves, fourty coats and
nine sweet dreams
so pyroclimactic! so silly
gone dreams

"Whither, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?"

and so as song harps strangly, strongly
through a bluelit love

i wander down dried riverbeds
slipping slight above.

12/08/2006

Author's Note: This poem came mostly from a dream. The italicized stanza is from "To A Waterfowl" by William Cullen Bryant.

Posted on 12/09/2006
Copyright © 2025 Corey Lockaby