A POEM ABOUT NOT QUITE GETTING IT
(BUT NOT AN APHASIC POEM IN THE LEAST)

sweet onion of a moon
slice thin as half a thought

and the clouds lined up on their balance beams

(words carry ... what? intent
if not a

and usually not if you know what I mean) I

can pull meaning from a streaming heap
yank it from a tumble of knotted strings

but death and its absolute buddies leave me

no syntax, you know?
(you know) what I say mean indicate talk

it's the concrete — those clouds and such equippage

it's the motel strings the cherry stewpot lunge line
it's the storefront pickle anthracite phone bill

... it's guitar book Francis moonlight fence

First published in U. S. 1