Monday, June 14, 2010

19: Nf Huth

Smoke or smoulder
the moon is full and
(sifty tendrils of
proud or . . . )

(the smoulder
to the real . . . lazy, wretched, lying)
I would sing these strings
to the moon, full of

violet and doors
where my eyes, ears, mouth, nose

should be
if strings could
if I could remember or rouse

like a cloying rhyme
never fully closed

like an old poem
moonlight (in my bed) or

(or . . . )
forgetful midnight words
vibrating like smoke.

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