Plain American Language

I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Untitled, After Reginald Shephard

Petrarch likes my moves. He likes my use
of legs, desire of legs, smooth like moons
pinned to ceilings of little boys' rooms
(though the air wasn't on, the birds on
the wallpaper flitted about at around two
when he was awake and aware
of the viscosity of summer--how
it dove-tailed a bit then banked left
into a September known as birch tree,
ash and hush).

My bike's wheels rush like the music
of dolphins, clatter to the ground and wish
(I wish) to call out to my lost love (the
almandine shape of Spring--he is fifteen
and holds her hand as a tea bowl,
as a glass)(he is fifteen and begins to blow
his nose and think of marijuana). Petrarch
knows how to find my love, my hand.
He likes this,
this music where I give and give, then take a little back.

*note: the short, short lines should be indented all the way to the right most part of the stanzas...