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To you, too, hello; I am a flop
not chasing a hart.
The hart is resting just there
on my chaise (I have a chaise),
unperturbed, except its antlers
seem to want to claw the air.
The paint job shivers in their given-off heat,
resettles. Strewn about
for decorative purposes
are pomegranates. Grenades
were named after them,
the original explosive cases
with wicks on top
so distinctively small and fruity.
Now if I find something
with a wick on top, I snip that wick.
There are some lingering questions,
whether this syrup is a sweetener or a medicine.
How best to make one's way through water
without splashing.
The ducts all terminate here
the pipes, the couplings
lead to the pool.
Back then, the fire exits were locked,
the per-head payments confusing,
the consult, the pet food,
the unlacing unhygienic,
the loose claims about the measure
of vitality allotted at birth colliding
with the clock-punching necessitated
by success across platforms.
If I wasn't going out starkers,
I was going out barking.
Now when I do "work,"
it is only to make fragrant the path,
to scent a shelter
for a crowd of people.
It's okay, deplane, unhorse yourself.
You look tired. I'll gore you a lemon.

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Copyright © 2014 Gillian Kiley All rights reserved
from Jubilat
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission