Today's poem is by Michael Teig
Till It Sticks
They wooden hut. They walk backwards.
All of them helmet-wearers.
One may sit in front of the shut-down hotel
slicing his egg. He may infant,
struck dumb in the meadow.
He may phone into the distance
and the distance may phone back.
In this way thinking spans themselves.
Without an anthem they go out
of their heads, so their sidewalks
are soundtracks. It comes in bunches.
It pops in boxes.
Day and night they trouble.
Even the dolphins are for sale.
Swan in no box. Ten on the hippo.
Their market mooing.
Their horizon leaking. Into it
smugglers and hustlers snuffing
small dealings. Into it antlers.
Their weather unwilling. They splinter,
joined again in cupolas,
in minuets. They creakbed.
That is, they burble and
the darkness burbles back. Sometimes
sisters. Sometimes dumplings.
A litter of clappers and chatter.
They smolder, keep quiet,
then flock to tables in twos
till the trouble stops.
Their borders are breakable.
not even close. They so long
so well they're already leaving.
Copyright © 2011 Michael Teig All rights reserved
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
Support Verse Daily!
Home Web Weekly Features Archives About Verse Daily FAQs Submit to Verse Daily
Copyright © 2002-2011 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved