08-15-2016, 12:18 AM
When we studied Shelley's To a Skylark,
it was like a highly studied conflagration,
trilling out “the hum.”
It exploded from the page,
and we
apostrophized from wan, decolored tomes
to vivisect the bird.
Now,
when every 6 am is a brisk orange,
and flies clump on the shit beside the bus stop,
I often see a man at 6 am.
He
is always quaffing brown-bagged cans,
smelling like a barn,
mourning for his dead-at-fifty diabetic brother,
and howling, “Hoosiers! Hoosiers! I hate the city! Hoosiers!”
The birds are noiseless pigeons and crows,
and I
dissect the man,
as if his unctuous, cut-up hands
were fodder for a passing reverie,
when earth is sublimated of its weight.
it was like a highly studied conflagration,
trilling out “the hum.”
It exploded from the page,
and we
apostrophized from wan, decolored tomes
to vivisect the bird.
Now,
when every 6 am is a brisk orange,
and flies clump on the shit beside the bus stop,
I often see a man at 6 am.
He
is always quaffing brown-bagged cans,
smelling like a barn,
mourning for his dead-at-fifty diabetic brother,
and howling, “Hoosiers! Hoosiers! I hate the city! Hoosiers!”
The birds are noiseless pigeons and crows,
and I
dissect the man,
as if his unctuous, cut-up hands
were fodder for a passing reverie,
when earth is sublimated of its weight.