For Such Awhile

Mother Thinks There’s Something Wrong
Around My Eyes,
She Should Know, Its Her Heredity:
Too Much Caffeine And No Sleep,
Bad Poetry, Rhymes-
I’ve Been Hibernating In A Well Of Hallucination,
Now Look At My Shadow Swing Across The
Wall, Like It Did In Kindergarten,
It Is The Only Thing That Is Real.
I Am Reading Auden, Six-Hundred Pages
Is Not Easy, So Intermittently I Ejaculate
On A Green Towel, On A Cloud,
And Ask The Simple Colony Of Gods Which Sting
And Eat Their Own, If Rimbaud Wasn’t
Real, But One Of Them, And Verlaine A Kind Of
Courting Thrill, The Way The Sunlight Might Often
Fall But Only When A Body Is Alone,
Reckless And On Mowed Grass, Insects As Azure
As The Bottom Of Airplanes Exploring The Sky.
A Glass Of Coffee Between My Legs, This Little
Dog Wet From The Thundershower Which Broke
The Horses Until They Trampled Over Arrowheads
I Stole And Gave To Her.
Too Many Of My Poems Use The Second Person
Pronoun To Be Anything But Helplessly Amateur,
But If The Roses I Bought For You Are Still In The
Infant’s Vase Upon The Window Sill,
They Have Turned Brown For Such Awhile.

More Shayari by Bret R. Crabrooke
03 Sep 2008 No Comment 1

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