she has truly channelled Daisy in an unprecedented way. this makes my heart hurt. perfect.
(Source: citrum)
He would not fathom it:
In his garden he spent each day
With the moon at his feet, and
There he sang to the wolves as they
Prowled and preened around the trees
And they howled. Echoed, empty. Lonely
He stood steady with the pines and
Howled —
As if to ask God for something
Heavy and whole as a
Brick in the belly.
In his eyes the flurries fell,
Little crystal daggers,
Inconsequential flecks.
Under heaven he stood still
And his hair turned slate.
a bit of anticipation.
Foraging Mardi Gras by Lisa Russ Spaar
In Lenten overture, I float on tissue-pomped façade
of chicken-wire trailer, intoxications, fumes of gasoline,
liquor, & overwork, day scatting its gilt beads
into night’s black-bound book, hinging every hope.
Aisles of wonder lead me, charcoal strokes
of thinned thicket, window flare. I’m writing toward you,
palms bloody with henna, through the fiercest neighborhoods.
I should be honest. My car’s parked at Food Lion
& I’m pushing a wire cart through the pyramids,
headless vials of wine, frozen meat in caskets
so oddly spousal I shut my eyes and whistle past them.
How long can this trip be if I already see its end?
Truly: I can’t whistle. Yet hold tomorrow’s ashes in my mouth,
hot as your blue limbs, a secret pendulum hung with silks.
