Eli Drabman
the ground running
$8

 

[Experience will be shapely]
enough to fill the time, ashen
sloughs thick against the old
cravings, leak outs begetting
as if the end of those sparks
be the presence of a fire-who,
a fire-what, a fire when cover
is blown, the wires all melted
across the synthetic lawning-
belt, its green and unforgiving
energies expiring, TILT, your
rubber-plants regret their old
utility, and tea-flowers take a
step toward further rancidity,
it is glorious, they say, slow
whispering in the roots, this
growth inside a shell before
the time finds itself again at
odds, staring, without gaze
enough for every shimmer,
every rich and blooming
thing, greening, starving
for a plump, red shape
to rest one ’s arm upon.

[The music gets faster as]
mechanical horses crash
on through the sphere I
had been saving for my
second childhood night-
mare (I would then own
not the air, but the texts
in which air is described
as not sharp or pointed,
not smelling of Cornelia
unless having passed as
wind through the mouth
or hair of Cornelia, given
as she is to frequent fits
of vigorous outdoor exer-
cise) when I might wake
to find myself pinned by
the sharpness all around,
the many angles closing
down around my elbows
and neck, and prey for a
steed with silver-flashing
blinders, with gears hung
to protect one innocence.