The Thing

All around the broken house
the light is fierce, the weeds are glad
the tits on a black dog napping
shine in a casual splendor
and in the city proper
doves in Chinese dresses
go straight on ahead, around, and sideways
on those nasty bright pink feet
eyes wide in everyday amazement
while overhead the birds
caress a thing of sky
above a local person brown and blue
advancing with a very blue and silver fish
too big for dinner, way too small for shelter
in her arms, in what they call a taste of off-time
when people crave the shy beginnings of a smokeless fire
and that long and milky brand of sleep
white leather on a testament
hot lemonade and simple local solitude
with heavy sky and silky dirt
all hot and motionless together
at least they do
according to the word of old man Mr. Darkness (senior)
authority on spider-meat (the sweet, the bitter)
and the gravity of cats
and what a bear will eat:
bark, frogs, lightning bugs,
red plums, all kinds of flowers, hornets
(both adults and juveniles), balance, pain, and dignity
or anything at all, so that
there used to be some very careful names:
the dog of God, the blue tooth,
the old man, the one
who is going around in the woods,
the thing, that which went away

Robert Gregory | Mudlark No. 17
Contents | Say The Cloud Boy