Dylan Kinnett

Seven climbs of brother 

They have their bonds and deals,
working and willing in the city's elements
screamingly under prosody. And then the beauty,
That organizes this quiet baleful art,
Sans clocks, sans cards, sans bread, sans everything.

- - -

SYLVIA PLATH VS CHER 

Look, we’d hear the unheard,

a lay boy could

preach a little,

preach a little now:

gypsies, tramps, men, catastrophe

futures where nothing will trump

but every night for all the while

blasé men people of the town

bored arena crowds designing havoc,

with their smooth southern “could”

their out-of-date dragons

we’d hear it from the unheard

every night all the while

we’d hear it from angels:

neither pleas nor the knight,

the gypsies, courts, doctor thieves,

never the money they’d conquer

shall coax from doom’s bottle

the people of the gospel

cross the gypsy’s palm