For James Grinwis, upon news his book will be published.
Poems are hurtling from space,
unknown, darkly comic, incinerating
at the touch of atmosphere.
And we, Brontosauri, fix
our eyes upon the apocalypse.
Mussels, mayonaise and toast,
jazz saxophone in a moody
walk-up apartment on a sleepy
side street in a college town.
She says they look like genitals.
Gods named after Norse dogs
orbit across the wild sky,
black stick figures storm
the airport. Like the frost
camel, anything is possible.
No comments:
Post a Comment