We do not prove the existence of the poem.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ~Wallace Stevens
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ I.
Arrives to an alley, windblown
time-tumbled, sees a bunch of kids
cursorial under the equatorial sun.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ II.
A ball is asteroiding towards, tearing
the air around, and dissipates.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ III.
A loss of memory is tragiker than
a loss.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ IV.
A saint of ice fumbles his way
into the alley. A metallic din, a cold
humunculus sanctuary for the
swarm.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ V.
Monkeys, leaping rooves to rooves,
golden maned in the gilded heat,
anthropological tall tails of
imagination swinging
in the winds of Loo, autonomous.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ VI.
Where do these go at night. Where
to sleep. What home. What trees
remain uncut as of yet.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ VII.
Monkeys in a triad. Monkeys cover
your eyes your mouths your ears.
Petrified in the pose, monkeys
of the Millennia.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ VIII.
Don’t cut the metaphors by their
stelle, juvenile. You, stealer!
— thou pluckest me out, —pluckest!
- title adapted from Franz Kafka via Lucie Brock-Broido’s ‘A Cage Goes in Search of a Bird.’
- Ev Williams, Your Friends @ Medium! Pay independent writers what you owe them!
- poem biting at its tether —
