A progress through the gust of two
words towards the thought
of train cars clattering a transgression
cluttered with italics or
spans through the guts of a jest.
The jist is what nostalgia hears
(Where are your jibes?)
your laughter hiccup-filled
(Corona, Corona) what remains
is syntactic (your pencil-thin mustache)
leavings and the left (you fingers tipped
with pistachio red) what bereft fears
the eyes weap (there is no I in remember)
G o o d n i g h t S w e e t P r i n c e
(you hath borne me) like a carnation, syntax
wilting in your lapel (what I meant to say was
goodbye sweet lemon-ice-king). Roses
die in the fall. My appeal
for two pastoral words W e D i d
A l l W e C o u l d T o R e v i v e H i m
the grass of an accent, the trains
like a digression through a lens
shone languish, a guaged link towing
woeds (what death makes), a rose
by any other name is for rememberace:
loss incants and guilt-edged songs are dead:
decant your wine like opera
(I can’t go on I’ll go on)
Like a railway line, two rows
of cast steel cast off, two words (rose
enchanted) (guile adorned) like sed-
elementary trains of thought receding
through the hillyguts of hearsay,
memory and the elegance
of toilet and oil transformed by a pearl.
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