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The Sylvias.

 These poets live on Megrim Farm the dolts nevertheless sluice
brilliance shout days the less they snore whole odes in compensation
exclamation the names of gods the authors take to picking at with
microtones is this a New England with the poems coming? trot right out
in Meadows the glass typewriter cogs turning look at them! an immaculate
hotness care to write up this whole summer? blank but the rhythm ...
snappier with a foxlike topicality Freud would call you a husband people
are drowning in poems like this once spat out a cork's life a fly
upside down on a broom it's your lot to pop verse a drench of no

 Clears throat this is the winesap of it all excuse my moment
pretty as mustard on a lapel the economy of shipped oars a trench in the
basin where mutterweed rolls thanks for everything Doctor Lock in one
breath thumbs it all in like a dunderskin the sonnet on the shelf holds
everything excepting all the remaining molecules nothing so dignified as
neighborhood phonecalls a collection of shrapnel and dented masks
what's left of the string pool flung shoe poet gets angry and
leaves his poem bubbling on the grill once all alone 

 Imbibing creation low in its drawers too many loose e's
for one moony draft horizontal sectional seasonal backing around the
poems go to town but slide and shy so very at the least can't be
easy shipping that stillness encoded fallowness snapping the corners
swapping the others the sheet holds even on cold inquiry I have no idea
thoughts crack windows gone flung crazy elegant and yell yell this is
the wall to Hades my stuck caprice lessons in livingroom and kitchenware
used to do now frosted with dust crossed-out chuff I light your harbor
said Apollinaire I couldn't even hoist a chair 

 Sylvia do we have a pencil? torque weave belt beneath the bed
rocks and hums a comparison of parities have some more that flashing
impotence I hear Lowell called his recording a sentimental imposition
and carry the twelve he should take them out and sand them muscles
shaved a tonic bundling I hear he consults the Parthenon on coincidence
buries to the forearms in till there's a robot in the house
flashing lights cracking vials his comedy reaches the basement sings the
earthworm's furnace song if you tossed off poems you'd
understand these rings will never reach the stars 

 Did Lowell leave the sun here in these tissues I wrapped my
poems tubed for dishing later this one eats his letters thinks till his
eyes are baked the fireman burned my poems didn't want to but did
use an earthquake to verify I paced them by the neck 

 I fought to a draw this stubborn gas in my head used as a
floor used in an attic window where the moon proved a reddish cap you
think it's Gothic? some have gods in their vitals is one god any
good? EXPLOSION this is a battle cabin then a bottle calm slice the
glass forgetting to pay out the light they say you've got to see it

 Hard there by the wishing waters with a cool spectral diving I
pose otherwise smoke for the folks none other thinking of taking a lever
so smooth to the task the tape measure only there is this felt rug still
I feel the affairs coming on take a line from the metronome blue light
on the darkening snow for show it's been such an edge you sorehead
the renaissance of geological fatalism now medicinal flap one does rip
the lumbar palpate reasonberry suspect you might come around to see 

 I tugged the cloud out of its bottle and spread the dose hup
hup! let's play with those avenues right here inside combs rubber
strands bags in the inner chamber of brought out hues better and better
the listing of all domestic drains needless to fight that hapless brain
how do you mean does it mean? thoughts are short and snap the velocity
of forgetfulness scary I can hear the earth rolling around outside
springtime battered the work showing through a latent snow to balk to a
stall now is that a saturated dinghy? I'm appalled 

 Those louvres have lowering lights how I'm brisk with my
information rock toes against the infection's drift my poems are
goodbye and beyond them the street particular stems but not an essence
you were me you'd be gone in the morning take the voices
they're just a farewell nightshirts closing the pages are boxes
puzzles to be frozen and stacked the tucking to be done by someone utter
and the world grinds on to indifferent music 
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Article Details
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Author:Coolidge, Clark
Publication:Chicago Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jan 1, 2014
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