Today's poem is by Bill Rasmovicz
In Ripe Wilderness
There is blood so red it is black, horns
that double back to pierce their fecund animal source.
Outside, workers dig a pit
exposing the infrastructure, the hairline fracture and rusted main.
If you concentrate, can you feel yourself in
your sinuses, your spine?
Made of alabaster the body would be lighter.
In ripe wilderness (and I remember this clearly) where a man
slices his finger in the field, amidst
the hare's entrails & bloody mess, certain greens
emerge from other greens, truth
from THE TRUTH distinguishes itself.
Underfuckingestimated: the czarina in her brittle white coat,
loosestrife to propagate the tire tracks.
Liquids heavier than water pool on the ocean floor
so that, while submerged, further submergence is possible.
Years a person could go on with the head
sub or even unconscious.
At 20 below the nose hairs freeze into icy little slivers.
Dear intimates of the past and present, sorry for not loving you
more. Sad sunset, your melancholy here.
Equip us with feathers, hollow out the bones until they become
meager enough to float.
A man ventures into the world with a jacket and keys
and thinks that world his.
Copyright © 2013 Bill Rasmovicz All rights reserved
from Gross Ardor
42 Miles Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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