From Sawbuck Poetry
MARCH
Moth-bodies of greenhouses at mid-
morning stretch out—
a syllable— cross the previous
trickster swamp. That little mister
where nozzles ought to burn,
crying injun at every undisclosed
box with wheels,
box with no way of returning.
Just hit me with it— Felicia says—
if I can get me and my boyfriend a pack—
intruding on this poem. Which one,
Felicia: did she mean
it, kindly? Can the passive be
as aggressive as you feel?
In my army and about my predicament
there are meteoroids covered
in the grass, there are prairie
skirts hovering, hairless as present.
I will be with you presently.
This unmade river not
done in this instant
is, shows.
© Jen Tynes 2007
Moth-bodies of greenhouses at mid-
morning stretch out—
a syllable— cross the previous
trickster swamp. That little mister
where nozzles ought to burn,
crying injun at every undisclosed
box with wheels,
box with no way of returning.
Just hit me with it— Felicia says—
if I can get me and my boyfriend a pack—
intruding on this poem. Which one,
Felicia: did she mean
it, kindly? Can the passive be
as aggressive as you feel?
In my army and about my predicament
there are meteoroids covered
in the grass, there are prairie
skirts hovering, hairless as present.
I will be with you presently.
This unmade river not
done in this instant
is, shows.
© Jen Tynes 2007