Labor Day


I was your ride
To the meadows
Your crow
Behind the camera
Memory from
4 years ago
Today
Things were
What they were
They dressed me
Like a dude
In my stupor
I allowed it
I dunno
Shelley drowned—
At the funeral pyre,
Bryon tore his heart
From his chest
Or was it Trelawny—
A poet’s life
Is not
A gainly sight
But how natural
To idle
Wondering my purchase
When the moon is
The original problem
And anyway,
How to measure
The sky’s transaction?
That I have known
The proclivities of the heart
When the night’s complete poem
Unfurls
Seems whatever
But it’s my life
Have I not worn
Precipitously
The insignia of a dream?
Am I not
This very moment
Filling Death’s ear,
Glass in hand?
Of course,
I can be cordial
Be a good boy
And get lost
In the stream
What does it mean
I would update
Beauty’s folly
With beauty’s folly?
Is it that
In pure trifle
I have found composure?
And out in the blurry field
Expected delivery, Tuesday
Am I the dabble or the dream?
The fragrance or the ode?
The petal stuck adrift the binary?
These things are only so interesting
But occasionally
Shadows refresh
Just so
And I am terribly embarrassed
Having thought it through
In this way—
Visited
With creaturely changes
While the sun,
Confessional,
Allows
No clean break
Between the living
And dead,
It is there
With illimitable fancy
I walk
The grounds
Certain
A real castle
Would have ghosts,
Seashells
To piss on