Thursday, August 25, 2016

Heath Brougher, Lost Stones


Death of Confessional Poetry, image by Daniel Y. Harris 


Lost Stones

I’ve found a tendency to capable;
I put it on the windowsill
to see what the sun would do;
I already abscess the vestigial enough anyway;

my fugue can become antiqued if the rattles do not jangle properly;
it takes time telling the time of the tides and the moves
of the terrestrial water’s ebbing from a lunar pulmonary;
potable shark-juice in the pitcher
only a simple asymmetrical walk from the den;

you’ve more than shaken the stars out of your head
you’ve stolen all the epiphanies I had saved
and buried them in the graves of millennia
before even dust was born;

this is what it seems like when your eyes rain;

I’ve waded in lime too long to turn back now;
sometimes I can hear the opal rumble in the restless offal
of the plutonium pie.



—Heath Brougher

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