Wednesday, July 10, 2013

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.

- - -

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their out-of-date dragons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

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