Another Day, Another Dolor

Saturday, January 18, 2014



Without ever raising the question of circles, preferring the greater gravity of descent, the ease of downhill progress, what are we?

Less than fledgling, novices at our gorilla shape.

The anchor, in other words, going to its place, slips down the incline; the bones thicken in scale, from bird to man and down. A mood tumbles into a thing, a warbler, amplified to tuba.

          It’s the mechanism of not flying. We go along with our bones, ideas that companion a growing weight, sinkers racing to the bottom.

          The axeblade drives into the wood. Like the rain, we fall, tieclips, and matchbooks, and Chapsticks, and paperclips, and staples, and bottlecaps.

          (Published in Abraxas, 1987)


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