I want to sell myself a poem
it won’t cost a lot for I am congenitally cheap but it will be resplendent with rich words and it will feel like a good deal something solid and yet hollow where I can burrow in and nest for an evening straight into sleep keep me the company I need as I leave bedrooms of longing of leaving and of growing a poem that can expand around me or contract as I steal away self-stowed in a basement apartment where words trickle down the walls amidst concrete’s springtime weep when I get lost in narrations hemmed into descriptions that I darned instead of buying brand new I want to buy a poem used and I am prepared to kick tires
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as I lay in bed, alone
flipping one hand through the pages of your light hair the other cupping your spine I realize that I do not know you that admiration reigns here is a solid fact of my state so sorry: I know no other words that cut such superficial air to produce a feeling much too late but the idea is still absurd you are a stranger, my unknown and I, the mobile one, once knew better than to entertain hard jaundiced love – now I put you down (written September 29, 2011) Point Douglas
les rues et le pont Louise aussi nommés en hommage aux dames à la lumière rouge d’antan Point Douglas aucun tour de sauveteur moi en maillot de bain mêlé à tout ce monde debout sur la rampe de mise à l’eau Point Douglas personne ne plonge dans la sale rivière sauver les filles glissées dans l’oubli Point Douglas afin de les nommer une quête des mise-à-l’eau disparues de nos rues en draguant la rivière point de glas (written December 13, 2015) pulled from the depths of mire
by contractions and gloved hands we emerge to brightness and uncertainty a disruption of the stagnancy that reigns over a plain populated with thin trees like crooked cribposts or ancient tombstones lining the shores to watery wounds from a wanton glacier’s thrust that moved like we moved, crawled, staggered the first steps we took away from repose we learned to laugh and slough it all off old library books, newspapers, birthday cards, unmailed letters, hoarded cans of tea steeped in hospital bands and concert ticket stubs, crumbling dried flowers and herbs and the friction of day and night grown thick on neglected surfaces until the only things we have left are thinned skin and lucid whispers (published in The Manitoban, December 8, 2014, winner of the poetry category in the Manitoban Literature Competition; written January 21, 2013) |
Daniel GuezenA polyglot for a poet. Great. ArchivesCategories |