Rigidity

A Poem

The proletariat love song flames out behind a wall of sirens all legs with frail voices

The scrutinized wisdom of routine the stack of notes in the drawer detailing the order of this and any morning

The critic hurries in out of the four inches of snow: can hardly be called a drift can’t be certain of the meaning, though

The pens lined up for their reception but all points are dull and the ink dried up

Securing a piece of mind I went to shake the young tree that still has all its leaves screaming about letting go, hands arthritically clamped about its neck

The blue sky doesn’t fucking deceive me today

Poles of various length creating that mist-like wave you’re calling your tent and you disappear at the slightest gust of wind

J.D. Harms 2020