Thursday, January 24, 2013

Within the Previous Silence



Within the Previous Silence

All that clamor at the front door
merely a faint wind... no dog ghost.

          ***

The inactivity of mourning, bourbon,
your boots crunching old snow,
your false voice false-saying a poem
of wood-grasp, bone-chip-scatter...
or burial in blind-clutch volcanic dirt.

          ***

Each winter has brought dismay.
Dust from stars to tickle
or fall scratchy into an eye.
You cannot whistle or budge
to yourself any dispatched love.

          ***

What the hound left behind:
one unopened bottle of Guinness,
three hardly nibbled rawhide bones,
an unsent Jackpot, Nevada, postcard,
the name Wolf clawed into a carpet
with untrimmed nails that last month.

          ***

If tonight lasts much longer
your girlfriend will mistake you
for a men's store mannequin
sound-engineered to berate
every disinterested fuckhead god
ever desperation-concocted.


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