Saturday, April 5, 2008

Libation (new, sort of) by Sue Chenette

This is a new rewords, but was written as a "wreading" ( of Margaret Christakos' poem "Photo" (from Sooner. Toronto: Coach House, 2005) which is posted under comments.

Jug of sighed. Her. On apple pored and poured
from fallen wanting, of fixed light, taken

by moon-shine, which tolling rang down
the hours to darn! again – awful rumpus.
What’s tendered, sun-scorched (kissed) we cure, un-
willing shattered glass, against Eve’s protocols

circumambulations, stilled fermentations. Swept.
(I’m cold, you?) I’m cold, you. Flashes in the pan
throw mazed alarms motionless as chagrin
parlayed into nosir. A dozen ways I can’t

seed you. It ripens and falls of its own weight.
For hollandaise I will muster technique.
Premise: silken sauce, golden. Crisp asparagus
then libation. My garden (silver bells,
cockle shells). Season slipping into drought’s
parched habit (folding and folding, a ladder
not quite reaching the green-leafy branch,
broken rung, ravenous ghosts of repletion).



Sue Chenette said...

by Margaret Christakos

Extraconjugal moisture on sadness accumulated
from falling water, of photographs, taken

by rumours, which telling eradicated dawn
to bright midnight to dawn again --off-ramps

The hot tendril (sic) we obscure, our willing
shuttered lens against evident processes

redirects still-sad chemicals with sweat
(I told you). I TOLD you. Highway lights

hold dazed arms more or less as children
playing monster. It does not mean I can

see you. It is of its own sad developing.
On holiday I will make a technology,

promise. The lake: silvered thing. Dirt road
then rain. My contrary nature (nay,

sure). Time biding with ridiculous dearth
of practice (four times over from a letter

sadly flirtatioius, trying to be glad or tender,
dinted, reticent, various gists of depiction ).

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