That halogen moon has shone on a quartet of foxes,
crying for me
to acknowledge them.
trains pass overhead
and my body rattles
as any semblance of humour
I once had is extinguished.
daylight never finds this town,
– How do you write
in perpetual darkness? –
nobody is ever on hand
to grab the people and tell them:
– you made it through the night –
a bohemian canopy shelters it in memories, and it’s
all we have since the
……colours are too vague to recall, leaving only
…….synonyms built from assumptions.
I wish to be reincarnated.
I read Walt Whitman.
I read Charles Bukowski.
I can feel my bones eroding.
– Aaron Kent
Your quartet of foxes has me thinking
of Ted Hughes and the text
their paw prints make in snow.
It is raining here tonight,
the fields slicked and scabrous.
The thinking totem, the little feral dog
known for sequestering itself against
the day, the riparian draped
in fog, leaves clumped
upon the lair, the gone
transcribing our thoughts
in the ever-dense darkness that hangs
leaves and diaphanous eyes
like berries glassed in dew.
Reading is the act of burrowing
in riverain and emerging
only when the pangs of hunger hit.
I’ve scarred the pages of
Robert Lowell’s Notebook
and lived with the neurasthenic
fasciculations brought on by it.
Don’t trance your rabbit,
a poet told me once while I was
recumbent in the stink of reading,
stink of fox, stink of eutrophic river.
All mammals smell like books.
I don’t know what goes on
in that space between the seasons,
only that the cartilage wears
and certain exercises seem to help.
People in Detroit barrooms think
their clubs are quite exclusive
as they pickle into relics
of a more sequestered time.
– Cal Freeman