Re-Articulation of An Aesthetic

Line by line, word detonations—echolocation in versal darkness.

A small republic overrun in minutes                                                                                                                                                            by seasonal militia, unpredictable & without maps.

Runs reading aloud over the shoulder, crossing the creek—

prayer of the profane, prayer of what returns & returns despite progress & borders.

                                        Beauty as refugee?

Shoring-up an openness
& standing at attention–

Our Poetry ’tis of Thee,
Sweet Land, Bright Clarity!

Composed, compose, there’s a grounding
in all of this.



spinning on a tilted cup, truck then rain, left to think & feel, neither of which carried the sun as close to the ground as the sunflower, spinning under think, which

carried, basket-like, whole populations disgruntled beside waterholes, wait then rain, neither of which opened the book like the first line could, dustclad, unbeholden,

anxious thinking that a final object, cup or sun or ground, would lift above and lines would follow spinning as if there were no population that couldn’t wait for the feel of it

wrong again

finally, a place that seems inhabitable in that there’s less of a crowd, a pause that allows for echoes, a sense of having crossed borders

& borders are necessary, are they not, in that the leftbehind is what propels, & if wrong, then wrong but wrong looks and sounds so

clear that it can’t be wrong or all that wrong, it seems to have a head & tail & that’s more than most words can claim, having swum

so hard, having had the swim of a life, it’s greeted, all the same, by shore or claw or hook, so what’s wrong with wrong?