Turn down the gray noise, bus

Thomas Kwaitkowski

 

Turn down the gray noise, bus

driver. No need for the

the dryads and nymphs to be distracted.

Turn off the horizon and remove the

lemon tide, take nothing from

the golden trees with dying eyes

and lying fruit.

Hold no glass but rudder.

Cast aside the peace of pieces, dryad,

and dance beneath the lunar

disco. Bibloteca made by the

Aztecs formed of snow and blood, no

skulls for skill. And drive forth bus

man, to the depth of the green.

 

My eyes has seen the coming of the Lord, hidden behind closed eyes, filled with static

No longer do dogs of war threaten to hold open my eyes and keep it at bay.

Dryad, you awake from the star crossed field, sea of tide and bleach.

Dryad, reach your bare limb of mine, caress the dove and crush it.

Dryad, remove your bark, and chew the peppermint with it.

Cowards dance around ye, and I lie with eyes of fire.

Burn your branches with Promethean thought.

No home or cove to hide the cats in.

The savage faith of the ensorced.

Eyes see the dogs and static.

Dryad, fear the cloths.

Cast aside in me

Sea the see.

I.

 

Euphemism Campus Box 5555 Illinois State University Normal, IL 61790