National Poetry Month, Day 29.
Melting Milk
Do things then happen
despite our knowing
and is each misnomer
but a dream? Natural hiked-up
detail consciously
during years of anxious
foreshortening, now distanced
by tinsel, cup, ring, ball
heart, horseshoe, snail,
acts like visibility
of tempos irreducible,
to a fractious stance.
So find any plausible footing
and grab: Do we get to stay over?
"Sorry," says Recorded Time,
"didn't get it, lost
my concentration." First error:
the profile seen double
smoothes it out
and forklifts ballast. Verso,
enter nameless emptiness,
heavy on comparison, contingency,
conceit. How's it getting dark
because things line up in a
massive buddy system, a grab
bag of rimless data,
milking lights, red ball to green spool,
as we think.
Ash is crystal.
Ecstasy is near.
--Bill Berkson
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