ManicDDaily

This Is A Poem About

the vagaries,
vagu-aries,
of words.

Sure, some show
what they mean–ice floes:
ice that flows;
ice that, even stuck, floats.

Spoon: curve cool
in your mouth, still warning
not to bite down.

Or, spoon:  the warm fit
of your flank, peace beyond
the swoon.

Penis:  the stretch before
the close;
vagina or -al:  I/hinge/in winged.

Sorry–I say to those of you uncomfortable
with moist words
in this dryish confabulation,
but it too does its work–no one as sore
as the sorry, as sorry
as sorry me.

Then there are those words
that just won’t
say themselves,
whose sounds don’t sign
their crossroads, vowels don’t knell
whereabouts–
time.
Infirmity.

This moment tries.  This–assertive,
but oh, how that long mo fools us, its promise
already at
its end.
Gone.
Went somewhere

faster than an ice floe
caught upon a spoon, cool
in your mouth, hot
at your flank.

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Draft poem for With Real Toads Open Forum. 

Couldn’t resist reposing a picture of my dear departed Pearl as she jumped down onto a passing ice floe one evening in NYC a few years back.  (Both pics are mine–all rights reserved.)