Sunday, August 1, 2010

Rodney Koeneke


Across the news, the moon
to feed the hungry?
or trace silver cantos
in dark collegiate forecourts.
Its deeds are so minimal
by map it’s still night
rich and lustrous and poor enough
for America's urban and suburban area to shine into,
a satellite for motto
phone number of the inventor of the lyric
possibly Ambrel’s party photo pics
a rite of custom brings us each together
to prefer or be judged by non-applause.


the silence, the season
the centaurs returning
a day for the razors,
the Lapiths in cups
women, the moon
the centaurs with daggers:
turn back from our women,
turn back to the wood
beasts on the friezes
eternally turning
moon on the temple
o women, return.


Meet me at the autumn gate
where planes collect to skin the imperial
lake with discharged verdure. Everything Kenny dismisses
is actually interesting: you will see the ducts
as we continue to walk a little,
this month of quiet weather
subtracting the thorns from the rose.
Look where the willows thread their fingers
through dust outside the gate:
all ceremony of motion has stopped
the traffic stilled
moons distribute coins indifferently
to the poor and the lightless hushed against the walls
pretending to autumns
officials don’t feel
except sometimes in willows.
Come to the Gate of Autumn
I am distracted and Kenny dismissed
everything anyone dismisses is actually interesting
the oak released from the forest,
willows moved back from road.
Dawn touches the butte, we are leaving.
Cold orb, where I think to find the way,
say no.

-all three poems previously published at Work

rob pollard

The pier has lost its need of the lake.
Was it so easy for the lake to disappear?

-previously published at Dusie

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