Clayton A. Couch


what's sad is not so much the eyes really
it's that so much gets said which cannot be
read in any one way by the listener for even
birdsong sounds old and worn down in certain
climes and doesn't truly make sense without
a lively lens to interpret the incoming "data"
for those who aren't quite conscious of sear
I us you they it not whether some wind blows
up under thought's feeling but how the grow
wing of the brother the sister claims hold
of a 3AM waking dream urge that you miss
during lunch hour with librarians around
the table serving as a meeting place for dive
I did digital thinks when younger fires were
set in places that net work the son away

burning bush

oh tomorrow
brings it so close

I can't breathe
there's a speech

in all the country
but poor certainty

says that most
of us remain

as silent as times
long past and earthed

so the flake will descend
into the audience

of representation
swirling lazily down

ward to the podium
gazing out into eyes

barely awake from night's
long long reign

on crust
and he'll wave out loud

circulate those hands
praying that thought'll

reach him before
the madness closes in

side the emotions
of moment's notice

able blindness I
hope is mass sing

in choired up middle
west where the plane

went down in Minnesota
conspire against a caper

played by the white ape
and you'll end up ten

feet below your folks
should folks even con

jury a verdict from out
side that skull

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