'ode to the monograph' (by Sam Hennessee)

ours were made of wire & mesh, of

bunches of leaves, pressed for thickness

& bound together w/ twig,

ours, they

tell tales as deep as wind

saucy as night

sleepwalking poems –- scattering

vowels &

metaphor alltheway

to mo[u]rning.

we waltz-prance across the parking lot @

World Class Used Autos, where there

were no cars

(used or otherwise

(world-class or otherwise …

we foxtrot on our fingertips, hands

beneath our schvitzy buttocks: see the way

the just-before-dusk sunlight draws

us: little pigeons plucking concrete,

hunchbacked creatures smashing against our own

sleepy shadows.

into / out of

anything.

anywhere anyhow anywho ?

Furthermore, the music of the

wind-tickled trees outside our

window-to-the-world

= one-part whistle

one-part hissing trombone

& a pinch of mint choc.chip .

{ nosong is set in stone.

nor, not shining bright.