Monday, June 13, 2011

Invocation

Find some poems, she said. I've lost all mine.

Remember, I said, they don't look like poems
when they're seeding. They look like trouble.


O wide and dribbling skies,
featureless and leaking,
saturated with the light of June
as we know it, the sun stirred
into a wobbly pot of milk
until well whipped and smooth --

Slop, O slop on me
your lumens and your love,
shed your mist of light,
drizzle on my bald spot,
prickle in my nose, give me
a cold of poetry: make me sneeze.

8 comments:

katuprush.com said...

[grin] Love it.

Dave said...

LOL! Or at least, as Kat suggests, GOL.

Little Chef said...

I love the first two lines (especially).

Deb said...

Yes. Grinning love.

Lucy said...

' the sun stirred
into a wobbly pot of milk
until well whipped and smooth'

mouth-watering, enough to make me dribble!

lucychili said...

=)

Zhoen said...

I half love this. The other half jostles me.

rbarenblat said...

O, this is wonderful. I love the ending especially.