Ought not to notate on a book like this,
buttons on a shirt, Happy Book concerquadge
and an ellowsflecker. Getting written
seems doing and what’re distractions
but put to task, larks and wheelrows?
The deliberate cryptic is more a raft
yet even years know same path descript.
Justice drawing Maat and trainsliteral
on the facing page, all gaze was staring
too long on a story I couldn’t tell.
Trying had me backerds; what I need is
turning with the sun, composing poems
of an Atlas ice. Nag Hammadi, strong autumn,
this will teach a new quill,
now camel hair without an ego.
Situations for each, sedge in teeth,
trains I walked as a child with Ma,
turning buckets to scoop dropped sand
from hauler cars to carry back for mud pies
in jeweled plastics from the 40s.
On the trestle I was only boy who
had another blood to seep and stow, Dogwood.
I’d hide inside the woodhouse with the wharf rats
and dig out canisters and brands of iron
to make a sweeter sand shape.
On the concrete slab that was a porch in
eyes of hawks from the pasture I’d serve up
dainty muscles’ grit and taste for some salt,
always under imagination, checking fingers and toes,
the woodhouse embedded with canned
beans, tomatoes, relish, food jewels, I sallied forth
on factors, curious for the past, Fascinta.
Fantasticobra, fantibbles, fangoodies, fandoop,
fankipalation, fandadge, fanlisticon,
fanbobs, fanhacker, fanmeddle, fanmobro.
Happy Book Hotel a tongue-wise measurement
of the Appalachian gumption given, sampled
and Appalaption gunk on (given).