By LUKE EMMETT.
So, dreams
I recall almost nothing
but the arc of history bends
to a serendipity, the flight of one finch
– I think one finch
– irreplaceably restless.
Address me letters that
exhort my help, signed
overleaf – as if applying for
tomorrow.
Indoors
The grass crisp under our
hands, short visit stirring,
we’re distracted by sounds of rain
– shutters opened then closed.
In the eye’s limit the mirror
rots.
Clutter
The Cézanne
on
my floor, upended, is
unused.
A landscape; the Gulf of Marseilles.
It is,…was it,…it’s smudged, the letters fused
and shouting –
a fix!…in retrospect still. I slept too long,
no better perhaps hungry.…..Her…..irises,
more delicate
than the sea’s topographics,
seem pale.
The morning star
buttons her cloak
and the moon is asleep
august unsteady hands
present and correctly
faced no makeup
just rain missing
light speech under
her breath.
♦
Luke Emmett has just started a blog on the use of grotesque sensuality as a catalyst to combine language and art at separating the self from the senses. He also plans to start writing a series of poems based on Sōtō Buddhist koans.
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