Читать книгу Shattered Sonnets, Love Cards, and Other Off and Back Handed Importunities - Olena Kalytiak Davis - Страница 16

the lais of lost long days . . .

Today I used my new little hummingbird of a poem to get a big old hummingbird of

A bug out the only open, able, window. All my poems are hummingbirds, are windows,

Are poems, mostly painted shut. Mostly, suffocate and smile. But, hey, I know a good

Simile when I trap it, under glass. Like a cup. Discarded. Sordid. YOU COULD

NOT. The visitors come from all over to see how I can attend to so little for so long. So

Long so sweet! I said that in one of my latest poems. (One of my last.) I have finally got

Ten permission to repeat myself! Myself, never was one to relive the past, but now

I've seen that one clip many many times. Because your Face would put out

Jesus'. Still enjoy it. That new Grace. Still think I'm sitting too far back. Pale. Home

Sick. Eye. Still realize it isn't great art. Nothing is. Wire sculpture that. I know, I know,

It's been done. As I am sure someone has already lived this life, this wife, for me. Poor

Fuck. Sick Fish. Lately, I want, (o!), I wish, all my poems to end in, to end with,

Spring. The word, I mean. AND I, COULD I? Lately, I head steadily for,

Tread slowly toward, Abelard. Froward, I mean. I mean, Aberdeen.