Sonnets 2 Orpheus
er ein Hiesiger?…”
a tourist, houseguest, patient, fare.
passing through, getting by, a pit-stop for coffee and a quick
on the way from Elysion to Eleison.
died, anyway, the boy or the girl?)
doesn’t matter. It’s a buyer’s fantasy.
teeth, tiny vertebrae, are firmly rooted
the pillow, waiting for change.
dream of flying? It isn’t a dream. Ships
and exit the harbor like cellos, but the rosin
missing the bow. The girl with breasts
dolphins reminds you of someone you know.
the other shore, the water slips
fingers up the beach’s dress.
no end to longing. Dust must find dust.
die ihr nie…”
you, hard-drive for the Ancient of Days—
is that backwards? Sarcophagus
all tomorrow’s blogs and tweets?)—
way, we salute thee, as worms salute
rain that drives them to sidewalks to drown
the shapes of question marks and musical clefs.
Clefts. Whatever it takes to shepherd us toward
infused with stinging nettles and lemon peel,
White Russians made with your mother’s milk.
you look upon her breasts with disgust
sadness? Would you climb back between her legs
a chance to be held?) The angels in the graveyards know
it means to remember, what it means to forget.
up! (Intendant Caesars rose and / Left,
line from W.H. Auden’s “In Praise of Limestone”)
again, and you can hear the springs
in the flowerbeds. So much lust
persist, produce, even the mold grows faster
the bathroom walls. And in the midst of it all,
toddler on a crowded bus shrieking out her ABCs
and over and over, while her father
up his iPod and stares at the breasts
a woman in a Planned Parenthood shirt. . .
the hipster, irony means blending in.
the politician, it means not getting caught.
the poet, it means writing sonnets in praise
fucking, or Facebook, or Peter Falk,
saying the earth is this or this—
but beauty, anything but song.
a poet, translator, editor, and critic. His work has appeared
or is forthcoming in Zoland, Poets & Artists, Artifice,
Bellevue Literary Review, Softblow, Rowboat, Breadcrumb Scabs,
322 Review and The
Battered Suitcase. A
wayward native of central California, Kent currently lives in Boston
and edits poetry for Black Lawrence Press.