Wednesday, June 13, 2012

rob mclennan

In case I find a tiny minute,
for Kathleen Fraser,

           when no letters fall like leaves
                       Artie Gold, before ROMANTIC WORDS


A thudding silence, greets. Child-sized. Pure lyric energy, like watery spaghetti.


My passion, dipped. To shine, on shoulders. As a sentence to be, primarily.


Improbable yearning. Unyieldly chainsaw, lupins. Now that, even names. Crushing and regarding.


Am I not to take this personally, somehow. Pull up your socks, as you say. This very minute.

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