Subject Molt

Monday, July 5, 2010

You are sprung from the angle of inner event 
and rise through the hydraulics of ventricles 
like a birdcall in a storm drain
emptying into an
impersonal purposeless cosmos
where a pumpkin lies exploded
and a borough of October 
scratches its asphalt 
back with leaves.
Uniform stoops unroll 
their tongues of stairs 
as the dim light of living 
rooms is crossed and recrossed 
by a chain of streetlamps
proposing then passing your shadow
through your body repeatedly 
as though you were a simple vehicle 
for your own reputation.
Night is a flat, stupid wall 
that does not occur, is smooth 
in its constancy as you occur
to it like a passing thought.
It has become your role to travel
your palms over the topography
hunting for seams, 
silence widening around you
in an orb, so each person you pass
grows momentarily hushed 
while the truth of trees expresses itself
most fully in deception.
The attractiveness of autumn 
is a defense mechanism, 
nitrogen sucked

down into vacuoles, water
withheld from limbs for fear
of frost and expensive green  
chlorophyll drawn
down to leave 
exposed in abscised piles 
the pandemonium of chromium yellow 
and nosebleed red that live
seasons beneath.

Thursday, July 1, 2010