I make lists, decide the way
my thought fall in lines. How
to expose oneself to the irony
of architecture? Something important,
something to be done.
A shiny black beetle
flexes spindly legs;
wings splinter on concrete.
Little insect struggles. Little insect
strangeness. Words tumble.
Battles, naming crystallizes
the whiteness of melody deflates.
Moving back and forth, the aristocrats
can't miss it. Qualify the question.
You are in this: floundering
on the page, crushing concrete.
Kris,
ReplyDeleteI really admire your way with words and the sounds you create in your poetry, and this piece is no different. It has a very modern style to it, moving increasingly farther away from the tangible to pure imagery. I think there's a slight grammar issue with the line "the way my thought fall in lines," as either thought or fall needs to be pluralized. This is obviously a very minor issue in a nice draft though; the only thing I would consider changing is the end, perhaps squeezing in one more thing to compare crushing concrete to. Overall, great job.