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No Longer |
Or, or, or smashed clam shells,
broken pots
do not preclude nor
pressure despots
watchful for fissures
that I no longer can account for.
Configuring a racoon overhead, backing off from a skunk,
trying to match thing to thing;
a night's predilection for a
twilight's sanctuary. Forbidden games for
violated sites or giggling in the back room.
All to be swept away on falling further than sleep
that I no longer can account for.
A succulent restores the holder of testy remembrances,
who hoards the grains of peace,
who is saboteur of grace,
who is the entity that walks and walks
and will not be named,
who is continually in the way
rendering completely congested empty streets
that I no longer can account for.
Nothing to be made clearer,
not even thimblefuls of dust
to champion necessary heralds, corral high-heeled ladies,
assay each mouthful of water,
caught up in a greater vastness,
in night's lone vigil,
in sundowned paths to starry visitations,
that I no longer can account for.
My yeses pass my reach.
A diatom's message suspended,
turned off by a centipede's march.
Where was I?
Being paraded past playing cards,
their papered padded petulant ways
subsumed in a largeness of the outer air
about which there is so much to be sorry
that I no longer can account for.
copyright 2015
Frank
Praeger |
