JOE MILAZZO

_______________________________________________________________THE DREAM
________________________________________________________IN WHICH I
___________________________________________AM EMBEDDED
_______________________________IN THE APPOSITIVE

 

The louvers snatch up a barn to keep
me in company. The lowing of last month’s
autumn levee jazz in the pecan dark.
This shanty gets again to slipping into
an old transcendence, the greatest out
of us plainly speaking. On this caboose trip
you aren’t anything other than continued
in hoots, aligned, ardent, a pegasus hazarded
past the scrape of my adamant awakenings.
And from my skeleton silo of cadmium strokes,
I’ll still be signaling above this black sea
of clods: “It gets intense; wait; wait until
getting gets colder. Trammel down dear
scarab, dear cheek-to-lips, dear owl.”

*

*

THE DREAM IN
WHICH I CAN
HOLD ANY
NOTE, HIGH OR
LOW,
INDEFINITELY

What I can admit I said
is hardly nimble, undermined as it is, and a fistful
of damp.The drags congeal,
bits of omen in the morning
yolk that opens with a pale
“What?” The cicadas orchestrate
their forking song; all day,
it sputters a rubato longing
for nothing. You have become a paean to milk. I
let shadows taunt my eye
at the frontiers of my coffee.
If I should be heard, I would
be seen, and not scurrying,
smearing my trail of conception.

%d bloggers like this: