ACCESSORIES
Conversion to clutch-bag
of the last beehive
annoys, with wax smudge
on linen skirt
Dump a few dying drones
on the glass counter --
purse lips, complement
apocalypse
Grey - waif, pink frivolous,
red a futile summons:
not everyone can wear black
though every body will
Some times one wing still moves
and quarter-sized circle
sculls spilled poudre visage,
ever counterclockwise
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Hey, handsomely done! I love a poem I can read out loud with so much satisfaction. I love the second stanza the best, but the whole thing is so tight in tone (in the sense of both sound and attitude) that it seems unjust to pull something out, even to talk about it. But that's what I like to do, so . . .
ReplyDeleteThe last stanza is so clever, riffing on the coins-on-glass sound I hear in the second stanza. The spinning quarter, "ever counter" (nice rhyme, and the counter from stanza two is back, too) "counterclock" (an object, after all, of makeup), and "counterclockwise" (a kind of wisdom, or counter-wisdom in all of this).
Even the compound words you break apart speak to me. "every body" and "some times" make me slow down long enough to think in new ways. And just enough ambiguity throughout . . .
Peter, I would love to find a speck of merit in this exercise to jump-start ye comatose Muse. Crashing the electric grid likely wouldn't twitch her eyelid at this point. The last time that my head was this empty, I could blame 13 weeks of trial. Alas no present excuse. Perhaps if I turn counterclockwise?
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