2 August 2009 | Vol. 9, No. 2
Not Noon, 1904
– for Meghan L. Martin
Poincaré sits in the turning dark
of the stairwell
folded in a thin nightshirt
eating a dry husk of carp, mostly
all huge brass head, eyes
with declining bones like a harp.
An influenza is in the suburbs.
will be sputtering
with a soloist birdsong
that separates his thoughts. Bells
like 'little grisha' in low declensions
the white loins of the leopard
in flight through the windows
of the lyceum
washed with vinegar and small sunfish.
The bell rope falling
from the night sky is the last secret that,
and his perspective of the first stanza
as a composition
in six dimensions, the uncommon
The zebra stands in the back
of the beer truck
eating straw off blocks of ice…
the zebra has polliwogs
on it like lice, field
lines of wiggly sentience
and the pink mice insisting, cropside,
of a plague outside Marseilles
The beer truck drives into the dusk.
The untroubled potato fields
egging on a soloist bird,
at evening; it sings
of the über-frames and the long
long bell rope at dawn.
monotony of enigma is what's wrong.
It's grisha who now mourns.
About the author:
Norman Dubie's most recent collection of poems, Insomniac Liar of Topo, was just published by Copper Canyon Press. He lives in Arizona.