Poem of the Day
Second Dream
By C. S. Giscombe
In my experience—waking
life—nothing had readied me for such an arrival.
In my experience—waking
life—nothing had readied me for such an arrival.
between brownstones / where yearning / confesses its nature
but no one is always on your side / not even a poet
I am we: space the gift, / a white sprit of motion—
and I would lean in close and tell you that John Wick kills women like
he’s read feminist theory
Smoking a dart, I said.
I just met my first bird.
Born of a sharpness, and set to music.
In my hat I sit
in my cellar
waiting
The enemy’s late
Those photographs
of Brezhnev’s death, of Brezhnev’s corpse in state: the
forced
lilies stuffing his coffin, the million mourners in their
threadbare Kremlin.
I told you the words to it oriole.
Now when an ear come
say it right.
Kiss the mother
that needs to become
that needs to need
grounding