3 Poems

junction

surge echo or maybe the wind westing moist my Illinois and testing the corn town now other wise unnamed where today I wobble in white shoes unyielding where I already idle a toddler thus milled under bike while trundling along side my mother a warm breeze between her left hip and my right trimming the distance spotting the playground and trodden a path between sodden trash puddles and patchy snow filth a rhapsody verging in rapt witness and awe at kid trio oncoming on bikes an uncommon human myself soon into bitumen once rendered thorough fare and ire inasmuch felt under the sprocket of one whom today I beatify psychic unceasing reckless euphoric remote up from the muck riffle mat and layered              leaf pack distrustful of the book that perhaps the skull continues to shrink or as such toward a vanishing point sudden a series of tracks left Idaltu these collections these hands after dabbling —ded              —ded              locust              drizzle              runner              frisbee              wheel              valve                           —ound                           snatch torque hammer feather             catching he fell into the cactus running without watching              arm outstretched do you remember Peter get out that guidebook auto unfurl thy flag for whatever snatch flapping the dead runner will wheeze glancing back over his bone shoulder eye sockets              unlocked bone race agent hips coming unglued one woke up one morning and wasn’t willing nor able              to here varnish the roadside and worse              mind ever and always wordless Throttle The deep and additional why be yon our own sun’s bubble garbles an aria.  Locomotive drum underlines two part harmony whose, it also a kind of train song, some sectored engines shrouded in green, others stamped horse and initialed with corn, an icon both inner and ear.  Acme rank satellites, by gobble, de range what remains of our sky.  For what were they asking the hour?  Nadia throttles them flap jacks with some thing resembling a throat.  Young minutes regress, head bending stolen concrete.  Imprison blind ache melon thump tempo, for poppycock coppers I’d seek even a skunk, sings the outspoken spelunker, digging around in his pockets for goggles.              after Lisa Jarnot’s “Train Song”

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