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JARED STANLEY |
from SHADELAND
My love the leaf litter
or loose
gravel or canopy
all that edges pneuma, naming
affect with a close movement. Here is a trying on of the tiniest of
salutations, the path’s bits of leaf, together with spurious dust; familiarity
breathed right is to jolt not enough: air, not mere: particulate thou. Let me
say a thing half alive, with my shirt on, OK? I’ll wear any greeting from dirt,
as if a hide. On it comes, one has it. From here, a bad costume, a shirt
quivering with nubs of wood, loose-loam, half rock, and persistent dust plumed
from any disturbed tuft of needle or leaf.
Held together with pine needles, I
have to wear it, entheogen, to say you, thou, you
there hide me, canopy or
clouds, a trace or speck of reveling. Along a path, I look at the long arm of
the shirt. It pokes me in the wrists. Bird-blind, I’ll wear any canopy,
exchanging heads with anything laying around, oaken, hair entrapment, the leaf
as just-escaped, fallen and then brought up again, half as green as any
green man. Some rhymes are great. What is anything worth if loam courses
through it and turns decorative, my head holding up a chandelier of birds,
among whom, in my love, I discourse. They’re porcelain, made and occupied,
hollow to the timing of their tinny ghosted ringing. Remember a cardinal or a
nighthawk. What have I crawled into, suspended about the canopy, not dextrous
to its comforts.
§
ROPE
Soggily you-flavored
mildewed to dust of course.
La, flecked with wet spots.
This was her veritable knot
of knick-knack
and flora
well-costumed it
transcends the rope
wrapped up to stop
and moor the barque
to green loam and dark. To flora
And imitation…bang carillon.
Pale foreground water begrimed,
Snow gathered in weave.
Well no, it's hoar-frost
Gathered
in weave.
Intense hair held the boat.
Red Regina gripped flotilla.
To you hiding, you rope, to what
you wanted:
half to wane
split to rest.
To drop the held you loved
to
the tarred pilings:
you're pretty and I said so…I feel
such
suspense in loam-time and sunless.
On you lands a harrier to bother.
It's Rampant
At least taut
a little couchant,
tries to sun in mud; so much for
The soi disant attraction of
strength.
§
ECHOES tinted
speculation
& return mouthy,
a glare a flutter & gear
wound-up as mourning
doves in flight,
unspooling like tape.
Who goes soundless and unlit,
whirring, secure on camera,
talking to oneself only,
aware of echoes of aware
allowed to quicken
or fall away, sure as a mimic
thunder follows from a distance
and is hollowly exposed, au
naturel?
Take a voice, steal a voice,
touch the word the wood talks,
then say.
§
“There was the sea
and the sky and
a boat that came
into the frame”
Ghassan
Salhab
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