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KIRA HENEHAN |
I Am He Said Perfectly
Well
i.
‘Tis grim ‘tis grim
in the scrim and the sea-
monkey hive is abuzz tonight. Your thin
silver heart
marks where mine has been dog-tagged.
We’ve seen this never-before-seen thing
before
the medics wonder after it. The starch
has gone from the linen leaves a gay
time
untraceable.
The clock is ten the monkeys drowned the boats
have all been run aground in a brainstorm
(the butt of more jokes I’d think). They returned
to
and glorious facades strung in clotheslines.
ii.
I share an internal weather with dictators. Nine
stars eleven stars twenty-four stars are
out yet
I remain an anxious
tic of history Fidel’s
attendants the last men mourning.
Regulus dimmed a sort of pigeons-in-the-
wall sound. They returned to find the
boatlift nixed they returned to
Menacing
iii.
Ah, weather. You
wrote some
similar thing aimed elsewhere.
menace
then? An aging ballet? Run riot
you say? Hastily clothes-pinned
at sea level? The Peter Pan interdiction
after all a failed venture. Your glossy
rail
against tempest lacks
conviction. Scuttle
me down into frail pale parts
‘tis grim
iv.
I’ve jotted some thoughts in indelible ink on
an anchor. Denebola.
Algieba.
better to do housing river-raft riot laps
us up til
it’s through.
Epistolary Love Story in Exotic Climes
Posted 10/05
Fore or aft in the mid-night wake of
you. We’ve been moving not slowly,
no, so I shout my eyes with barely any red or run. What you then begged
nothing separate from sleep but only reminded (the seventy-percent
humid of you, flayed in fever-lash – versus pillowed so cool) and left. I’ve
three new volumes, arranged by color: red- green- and yellow-rowed on
down the line. This day was in 1921 the first radio broadcast of the World
Series. (Everything she said too late to stop the night from starring.
There is nothing for it.) Remember me to your reflection, out where it
shaves itself smooth as its own glass. Does it not tempt your pocket?
Does it not then still your thoughts on winter?
Posted 10/07
Of you who asks new names, a grudge. What unmasked wonder
you
remain (here). Pennies hoarded in cushions et cetera. All that was
asked, a small day’s square. Ancient insomnias remember themselves
and so divide my nights; suppose we had not been consumed? “Failing a
fitting” the bride shall go naked in what, my dear, is called a traipse. It is
raining disconsolate here across the Oriental carpet (what anymore can
we say?) and accusatory music erupts from upstairs. Practice your
pining (he dilates with interest) and avoid that quarry of amiability we
once called a dance-hall. Always.
Posted 10/17
I will never eat a lumbering
sea-bottom insect, and have not changed the
station since you left. I listen now mornings to computer-generated
weather. The lizards step rain on the outside walls until the nighttime
fires. You fished up all the summer so we held a vote – it is early autumn
and you carry in your quiver a wrack of bronze-limbed instruments,
horning and clanging a steeple-song. You could, instead, be feathered or
starred (no symbols where none intended). The trawlers wake.
Posted 10/22
On the occasion of a picture: this
photo’s breath of what (once lied) I
remain to be seems not – but enough. I have poured three glasses and
prefer not to see where I’ve walked walked before. We
slept one morning
in an ending we could not quite know, and in the eventual an orchestra
spurned the needle which let it sing. In the aim of air one cannot fill
an
arm and be the same. An always fail in away-facing footsteps; things are,
we are aware, round and roll. Watch now how summer faces fall, how
white hair under a white brim still is distinguished, you who enjoys a mild
autism now and then: even you see heads hatted, and
see. My shadow
in the banyan tree.
Posted 10/29
A lull in the plaster, you can see
from here a potted palm, serious as
ladies leaving. So too my face; it will reflect say the cheetah’s waylaid
leap, or not, it will not hover like late sun over dead-grass eyes and
dead-grass hair. I’ve enveloped a terror in tight-cocooned you. The
parade slows in the home-stretch (the measure of legs a useless
expedient). I am reminded of a morning, braided crown of fingers held to
head and you crowed. Tell me one lie – I have guessed your pleasure. I
have also made several times the sign for water and become now
wonderful (with still thirst) at the high water here. There have been
warmer days than
so far out of habit, well, it makes what a hem blown suggests.
Geronimo
i.
It is likely soon to be coming on two. What someone once you
were – well. No
answer ever presents itself, only words without context. Say oyster. And what
days appeared before us. Clots of sidewalk, ceiling light.
There is one outside on
whom I lavish a quick and unlikely attention. There is one inside on whom dark
leaks in inkblots.
ii.
This is the last night of undersand
sleeping it is about to be hot it is about heat
and blur and drench it is not how an umbrella is shaken dry snapped shut and
discarded to corner awaiting later squalls.
iii.
This is a sun doubling as shuttlecock. So make your
scuttling sidewise entreaty
and don’t mind my shallow of blood. I would suggest while it lets
to chase
whatever it is you crave – a cold climate – what? And their
what? Magnificence. I
have no love for invertebrate accents and really now very little benevolence
towards these tiny jabs they will not stop I will.
iv.
“O Geronimo! You may well peel time from its clean bleach of
skull and in doing
so undo. Keep in mind that a bed ridden backwards remembers no one. I will
remember you with all due ferocity. I will save to remembering only carefully
chosen – the choicest of – I will call them one and two and one will be cool
sheets hotted and two the sly spread of your after
all quite handsome ears.”
v.
I will remember you a scant satellite and dismissal.
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