Thursday, May 6, 2021

Overshooting Tops

Women with scrotums . . .
Boys covered in scales.
Concrete nouns are myths
In gilt-painted clouds.
Poets have fallen

Hard for them these years
Since modernism,
So hard it’s hard work
Even finding poems
Built of abstractions—

There’s always a worm,
Precisely described,
Gritty scenes of streets,
Exacting landscapes,
Exact body parts,

Botanical names,
The luscious decor
Of rare common nouns
That verge on proper,
No ideas not things.

But prose does as well
With exact details,
With no fear of gods,
And all words are myths,
All signs abstractions.

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