| Wallace by Casady Monroe At the end of a crowded red hall, the brown field mouse halved like an ear to the sky. What was cloistered and gnawing now slouches at the end of the corridor which grows in orange. Persistence of round and empty. Persistence of gutted plum and church roof. Rockbeds filled with perfect skipping stones, Stevens, where is the green? There is all around the purple oysters with their heads cut off. Cold hands, hands solid in the position of here, now. What is the sound of over-ripening? It must only be your tongue, shirking. Those grapes that never fell, staccato seeds that buried themselves against the branch. The time has come to lift the sticks from their trees and return back with a longer radius. When will the rain come to wash the ash heap and the birds to take away the ants? The singing spirit collapses into cigarette dust, the small, brown mouse in the field that says while you can. How many days to keep the wound like this? How many until we can build our hole into the ground? |
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© 2007 prickofthespindle.com |
Casady Monroe is currently an MFA student at the University of Colorado, and has been previously published in Eros, Square One, Catullus 52 (online), and Logos. |