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More poems by Mark WallaceMark Wallace | Print this page.Print | View and Write CommentsComments | Books by Mark WallaceBooks by Mark Wallace


Mark Wallace

Keen to the multi lens, pictures
the threatened calm, luck of solid furnishing
forms a room that might home.  Going
more generous to the tendrils
of forgotten.  If hydrotropism
urges we drink the air, then the grime
questions our throat and lungs,
what we let sit with us on couches.
Why not talk of hidden things
the touching tongues, onyx and sea lions
whispers and ancient rings.  I faded
inside the shut door, fossilized talk
ways of leaving out, the cannons
with which they fortified
and closed the harbors.  Who put
that cobra among my toys, or were they already poison
for hissing of waste.
Tightened hoses extinguished the exuberance, exuding
an odor that reeked of extinction.
You might as well come over,
the interior leaks but warms to grouping.
Assuming the cretins just makes us so
and slow, desisting.  We wander
out with all our breaks, shake
against the gale, the wind
we're all within.  Language doesn't have to
stuff us in the seats.

Added: 9 Mar 2003 | Last Read: 11 Dec 2018 6:13 PM | Viewed: 3508 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/8111/ | Viewed on 11 December 2018.
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