Downtown NYC Not-So-Kyrielle
Little black boxes line the street.
I don’t quite know how caught rats meet
their doom; just that this life’s sure tough,
though we cry uncle, Lord, enough.
Walk next by 9/11’s hole
now asphalt filled, pressed ash and soul,
where shuffling tourists huddling chuff
(and I cry uncle, Lord, enough.)
Tied to cell, a broker f-words:
“don’t tell clients to buy secureds==
our fee’s cut down with that f- stuff,”
(as I cry uncle, Lord, enough.)
Sidewalks grey; the sky-rofoam white–
day chases cAsh to black-box night==
I seek the lee, but find the luff,
crying uncle, oh Lord, enough.
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Here’s my (draft) version of a Kyrielle, a French form, which I’m trying for Gay Cannon’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub Form for All. Gay has a great article about them – my understanding is that they started from the idea of Kyrie Eleison in the Catholic mass, though have ventured far afield.
A couple of process notes – yes, there are these weird black rat boxes all around downtown. 9/11 is meant to be pronounced “nine-eleven.” (I’m sure you got that.) (I have nothing against the tourists.) And yes, a broker from a bank was shouting f-words very loudly today by my ATM at the thought of a reduced investment commisions.










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