poet

Jeff Clark

by this poet

poem

a circuit, bled memory
a séance of the veins, a liquid hinge
Deceit, the tones of dreamed sceneries
defaced by a single face
and yet the day itself is more marred
by these traces of fragrance
chances to fathom her absence
or collapse with the sap of plants
and sleep,
poem

This morning in an alleyway I was startled by a face
I seemed to recognize, in a dormer above a garage
and so slunk up to him, who was ranting quietly,
mauling the mind of some imagined ear out the pane
as if maligned, or high, like one
moony and almost witless in a poppy ditch,