“the possibility of joy in the face of death”
—Georges Bataille
I.
Couldn’t get
“I” nor “we” to settle down, stay unresolved in time in crisp white burial shirts
could do bouts of theatrical weeping
weary though exacting avant garde gestures of the carpenter ant (stoop-start-stop-dive)
before they go underground to breathe
miracle teachings, storm drain
of the bye, bye, now, honey, whispery slow part
of the blues song
to sour our morals
in the grey oyster wet of the rain
weather’s excavation of a childhood doll, hello beautiful
hello so many windows in the side of a grave and then an unveiling
of an absolute shadow side, storm drain’s fungal spore
glow worms neon green face up in expanding gasses
in small voids between soil’s particles
before emerging from their cocoons as fully adult gnats
flying off to circle
to feed
to pollinate
how to play it
the grave kind of a…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, January/February 2024