Patrick Kurth
You came over me, Epiphany,
And even plead for more.
But the want has gone ammonic
As the vultures start to circle.
Knot my hide raw to the siren post
Not the silk now, but the curling bale wire, that
Distant hamlet cutting of
Urushiol and bramble.
A gavel augurs petrol gush,
Fossil ducts recant.
Lone entrance into evidence:
Some moleskine chicken scratch.
The hour throws no shadow,
But casts a glance of salt
Over shoulder
Just for luck,
Nothing doing.
The jury is unanimously sworn
To a **mandatory minimum
Of turnaway disdain.
First fusillade:
Asshole. Coward. Sui-
Arsonist, just another
Run-of-the-mill bullshitter.
Second Staccato:
Ts-tsk
Who called whom their hyacinth girl?
Wet floristry of lies.
I see I
Sign the forms to
Torch the orchard.
That toffee tree idea was bunk after all.
Chamber ire
Cup the muzzle
Crook the finger
Cock the hammer
I lie I
Will no one come
To rub my chest with dust.
The chorus above gets restless.
For every force
An equal force
In reverse.
Ready, aim
You
Made
Me
Feel
small
Even when
Silence reams
It often seems
To mend again.
Fall:
Yours the choice
Fail:
Just the same.
***
Patrick Kurth lives in Berlin, where he helps to run ‘Bridge’, a print and performance series featuring the work of local poets. His own writing can be read in past and forthcoming issues of Third Point, Panoply, Red Flag, Soundings East, River River, and the FU Review.