It is the armpit of the morning
and I am a factory: a column of smoke,
a swarthy hull striking deep in the drunken paws
of the blackstrap afternoon...
By contemporary standards, it felt twice
as important as the entire state of Mississippi.
You know what I'm talking about:
the rolling of those of four syllables,
the thing imposed on me like an obligation,
the breaking and tumbling of it into the half-lit sky.
Often in these long mornings, I consider, again those bird-shaped days.
Perpetually beginning again
and again--I just had something on my mind
and wanted to tell you about it.
Brain,
ReplyDeleteOnce again you show your knack for strange and abstract language pairings (blackstrap afternoon and bird shaped days for instance).You do a nice job here of leading the reader and teasing them with further possible details, yet you seem to divulge these details while being withholding (I hope that makes sense). I noticed a few instances where your words appeared as perhaps a little sing-songish and wonder if this is a bit of bleed over from your experience as a musician. Either way, nice stuff.