The Truants, by Eastman Johnson
Blank Verse and Epistolary
Blank Verse
disappearing into numbers
and words alone keeps havoc at bay
as raw snow spills over greening bristlecone pines
whose animated arms twirl knots into time’s typeset
and bedrock’s splintering soul opens for explorers
of other bodies to decipher
among banquets of unease, no less than a breath away,
something brand new is carried among crosswinds
through musica universalis - an immutable muse
or call-it-what-one-will
love is the unbearable
realization that another,
like you, is suddenly
and implausibly real
Epistolary
drafting
is like
touching
words
carefully
mapping
a knife
(Eros
is a light
sleeper)
and glances
as tender
brushes
of restraint
delicately
willing
to steep
private
loneliness
in greens
and squalls
crescendos
refusing
too soon
a conclusion
among
diminishing
stores
of time
August 8, 2024
Further considerations
Baby Boom and Bust
‘Howdy hoody! Lemme guess: you was just passing through the middle of middle England, and you recognized the flame-decorated Ferrari outside my Hobbit Hole, and you buzzed ‘cos you fancied a parley?'
Telling the Truth
I once told a therapist my father was molesting me. It wasn’t true. I was twenty-five and exhausted, lying awake most nights trying to understand why I felt so sad when nothing in my life was obviously wrong.
Thoughts of Endangered Paper
Here I am, looking at this copy of a // two hundred-dollar book.
this is about capitalism, and The Poet Sees Her Ex at Pride
duty pulled a mountain along lesser used roads. // time was ill-spent preparing workers for the crossing.