Today's poem is by Gillian Kiley
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
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.
Copyright © 2014 Gillian Kiley All rights reserved
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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