Today's poem is by Deborah Bernhardt
Texture is composed peaks arose. Outside itself
turns, whips, and peels. A fine toxic dust
tamps down the want to touch. No, it amps. The
be and the am fall down, hardhats in progression
à la Magritte. Down, down. Be amber.
Churn eight bungalows
with all their subtle nails and timber
the little metal of them, all their TrueValue,
in the “Will it Blend” blender—then you’ll get
the warehoused texture you crave.
Text her. Or are you made of w(o)o(u)(l)d (a)
(coulda) (shoulda). All her dust ire
falls in rue him. Rust and wood appeal
in their oxy-hewn, tamarind hue,
their selfsame oxytones. Beaminess.
Give saturation minutes to beams
‘round beams. Saltatorial light says salutations. Beamfill!
Light tailors to shape, pitches woo to the beamsome
beam in the eye, to texture. Be a thrice: soothe, ruffle,
develop. All hope, you who enter here.
Copyright © 2013 Deborah Bernhardt All rights reserved
New Michigan Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
Support Verse Daily
Sponsor Verse Daily!
Web Weekly Features
About Verse Daily
Submit to Verse Daily
Copyright © 2002-2013 Verse Daily
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2002-2013 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved