A son to poor school teachers
bluegrass on a ledge slapping
his knee, a son with mud caked
on his legs, a son pickled bright
laryngitis, on a sunrise Washington
State rose from its evergreen stoop
birdcalls chanting distress signals
"We'll all float on alright"
us writers thinking like we've
somehow atoned for our sins, somehow
the sanctity of the age, future'd-hands,
do bliss hereby sing this point forward
in Autotune.
But the wrens still wrench me from
my sit, and it's all different how we
got to intersections in our lives. let
them in shouts the longhair in my head
screams balconies
family college kids, the warmth only
ice and dew and it's June and the days
are long. Glory to thy name, thy will
be done.
Austin, Your poetic ear is fine tuned-cadence, rhythm and even timbre comes through in an evocative way-both transcending and immanent, bringing color to each word. A means to avoid the traps of definition, confinment-at best liberatory-and this is rare indeed.
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