Marsh Hawk Review is an online poetry journal sponsored by the Marsh Hawk Press collective. Marsh Hawk Review will appear twice a year, under the revolving editorship of collective members. Each issue will offer a selection of poems solicited by the editor, in addition to new work posted by poets in the collective.

Monday, March 7, 2011

BRUCE COVEY

Psalm of Fruit & Echoes


What’s delimited or existing in the same plane—an emotion, say, parsed in the physical shape of a stamp or a lottery ticket.

Or sprinkled sand—infinite finite points. Say you’ve pitched a tent for the evening. See the stars, all the sky’s tiny candles.

My ruddy graph. A slide hewn from quartz.

Or belief in everyone’s mirror, re-reflecting its superstring lawn. The assumption that most utterances will go unheard, bouncing about the drop-offs.

Execute pockets & rumple the conforming functions. Relative to Mao, a central banquet, a committed gestation technique, necessary for passage into lacing.

Your own aesthetic nature & its permutations. Play ping pong?

How to be killed in an already occupied area. A wrapped area, crossed & charred as sterilization’s mean. Have you a condom? Or pushing intangibles out of every pore, a lemon’s juicy surface project.

Just beneath the skin. Touching gut’s flora & its unique carbon resources.

Rain, so much tamer to watch on television. Firework’s fewer possibilities—four lenses in the in-between.

Finite pseudo-script. Have you been to an embedded store, human readable, & bought a banana? Its mock degree.

Where movement’s a whore in action watercolors. A quick paper, tendency to swirl or zigzag, anticipating the scheduled emboss.

Its whole series of gestures from vertical’s perspective.

A grave’s handful of orange flowers blown onto the street. The spectacle of the tips of branches, the scream of the tips of leaves.

Hoping this season’s intractable. A permanence strategy, me-specific, piping underneath this hair vessel. For if we start now, won’t we strip the world of its most impractical furniture?

Ceding every other slice to community. Accepting the observed particle’s mine; accepting the other miners. Calcium over the teeth of every lode.

One does make it, her bones radiate what tickles her feet. Standing on it.


***

Innings

Its own missing, detached, form a farm. Hoods of pitchforks & goats, first generation, for picks, top of the line hot dogs. Nine per play, but a missing ace. Teen, a teepee, to the west of scarlet’s crayon. Running away, she turned her suitcase sideways in order to fit it through the door. The flight for which tickets had been forgotten to be booked—no one’s fault, I mean. The silver in her mouth sets off a chain of events, igniting with a buzzer & guns drawn & aimed. Across the hair, accosting lacrosse’s skin-tight team, a catapult to her happens timely. Pretty red hair. Clean. All of the airport’s water points: fountain, bathroom sink, dew sliding down the miscaulked window, paintbrush’s dilution, a hose to wash the wings. As if the lay of the land weren’t orderly enough, the run elicits pastoral’s way, with an occasional coke can or crumpled box of wheaties. Thinking of staying with her & looking out the window, thinking of the salt & chalk.





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