from archer avenue
the graveyards of chicago
You can see our lawns are lovely.
Their fences precise. No shoddy stones
or wilting gardenias. See how well
the steel mill provides. The highway.
The misstep and tidy sickness.
Our angels line up row by row.
Almost god. Or close to it.
And ghosts.? No ghosts.
Only nightshift gin and kids
fucking in the bushes.
See how our marble shines.
Even the pigeons love the dead.
The vernacular of plots and greening.
You can see our lawns are lovely.
Their fences precise. No shoddy stones
or wilting gardenias. See how well
the steel mill provides. The highway.
The misstep and tidy sickness.
Our angels line up row by row.
Almost god. Or close to it.
And ghosts.? No ghosts.
Only nightshift gin and kids
fucking in the bushes.
See how our marble shines.
Even the pigeons love the dead.
The vernacular of plots and greening.
Comments
I'm absolutely loving these, each one more than the last. I love the language. I love the energy invested in them. I love how they dance delicately among modes of discourse, high & lo speech, etc. They do good jazz in that they play and chord around the note, then come back to the narrative core the way a good improviser would do, came back down to riff off the melody, just enough to make it recognizable. Good rich lines. This will be a strong collection.
Heads up! And, watch the ice.
Cheers., Lorna Dee (& thanks for the chapbook!)