Aught, no. 15 (2006)


Shannon Tharp

Consonant song

Weather’s thatched us
mysterious.

Most days break coastal after good shaking—
life’s glitter siphons through hands as feathers
find light and blacken.

An almanac’s looked-after fracture: forever
a light or a corpse.

Were things more ordinary
we’d give them all names, but they’re
not worth a candle, not worth a flame.

What’s to burn
when a field feeds the sea and is.

 

 

Half asleep

Rain—you hear
it, an ear sliding
down a window.

Skin polished
to gristle seems
a feasible treasure.

What one wants
sounds perfect
as it passes.

 


Copyright 2006, by the author. All rights reserved.
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