(no subject)
here is another dean young poem (so far I love parts of him more than anybody else I know).
Against Classicism
I don't want to remember her
often because each remembering
seems an erosion, a kind of erasing:
A shoe is lost, a voice, an arm drags
across the drawing drawing, a word
repeated leaks sense. The first week
after i said her name a hundred times.
Wasn't there once a boat in the smudgy
surge? And a hand, wasn't there a hand?
Thus the hole that might have been a mouth
fills with seed that sprouts obdurant
thistle, insinuations of cracks; thus
a bit of mirror fixed into what
might have been the socket of an eye.
It's always raining when I remember,
Raining on a beach, sand pocked and worn
further by waves going over going over
and more and more who I call to, Who
I ask seems a fabrication of putty.
Grey gulls the color of this weather.
Against Classicism
I don't want to remember her
often because each remembering
seems an erosion, a kind of erasing:
A shoe is lost, a voice, an arm drags
across the drawing drawing, a word
repeated leaks sense. The first week
after i said her name a hundred times.
Wasn't there once a boat in the smudgy
surge? And a hand, wasn't there a hand?
Thus the hole that might have been a mouth
fills with seed that sprouts obdurant
thistle, insinuations of cracks; thus
a bit of mirror fixed into what
might have been the socket of an eye.
It's always raining when I remember,
Raining on a beach, sand pocked and worn
further by waves going over going over
and more and more who I call to, Who
I ask seems a fabrication of putty.
Grey gulls the color of this weather.