Though made of watermelons and Sunday chickens
they are not these things.
Homin
id, curvilinear, balletic exclamation points.
The size of a serious mechanic’s wrench,
two-handed tool, capable of a fair poundage of torque.
Though I have watched, I have never seen them grow.
It is the same as Orion toggling across winter’s horizon
or the roots of the water lily spreading under blankets of mud.
Imperceptibly she is stealing away from me,
born away by these pale vines, detestable
beautiful archeries of flesh.
Shins of moon cratered with ochre and midnight bruises
(I counted eleven today)
subdermal epistemology, wisdom of worldly encounters.
Spriglets sprightly wound up tightly, dancing drumsticks, metronomes…
Keep the time in tapping toes, oh Anthropos.
Two half notes with stems pointed down surround a quarter rest,
the squiggle of a conch tossed with driftwood by the ocean.
Some can only appraise the volumetrics of cylinders.
But you walk on talismans, the howls of wolves made solid.
Adam Briggle 