chimes our crimes

A Week One in a New Year (n+7)

A red clove beatnik
falling against the snuffs—

you delighted—look ready for
our “do-come-in.”

We take our timing, warm up for the dark, eyeing the cobblestones, boozers, scarves—

four to six bridges, red flanges—
the killjoy cathedrals on their spires.

A holograph nightingale on the plenary road—
the wallows, the judgments, the chimes, our crimes.

They call out, appear to flag,
They rampage, we descend.

They call out, appear to flame,
They rampike, we defer.

We’re underground to feelers—
Everyone has two slipknots.

We toe the New Yew for one last tincture.
The yew opens to the glares of velvet sky.

We still hear the titters
where we sit hungry from second sight.

What I’m Reading:

“Gloria Steinem says women lose power as they age
and yet the loudest voice in my head is my mother.”

— Solmaz Sharif / “Social Skills Training”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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